


through all the worry (i still hear your voice)

by Cafelesbian



Series: tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Mostly Fluff, Recovery, actually idk about MOSTLY but largely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelesbian/pseuds/Cafelesbian
Summary: Two years of largely undisturbed peace has softened both of them, their sharpest edges worn down a bit with time and with no more enormous threats. They have plateaued into a form of happiness that has been tailored and personalized to them. Things are, by no one else’s standards, normal. The remains of what they have been through are interwoven into their relationship with one another and their relationships to others and to the world. They have not outgrown trauma; rather, they have constructed their lives into a way it is manageable.Two years aftereven in the dark. A conclusion of sorts.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1428403
Comments: 79
Kudos: 86





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh hey i am still here alkdhajksfhd
> 
> ok i don't have a ton to say here for once, this is gonna probably be like 8-10 chapters and like, there is still plenty of sadness but if i had to i would say there's more hope and happiness than sadness ! but steve and bucky in this universe rlly live in my head rent free and i wanted the closure to this saga to feel appropriate and satisfying so uh, hence a third chaptered bit lmao

In the middle of December in 2016, after therapy, Bucky is on the subway on his way home when he looks up and there is a man who used to pay him.

It has been probably six years since Bucky has seen him. He was one of Bucky’s first regular clients. He had an apartment in Murray Hill where he had Bucky come twice a month for almost a year between the time he was seventeen and eighteen. Bucky, vividly, is thrust back into _that’s a good little boy, such a sweet little whore for me, aren’t you drooling for it, so good for daddy, hm—I said stay still, sweetheart, not lay like you’re fucking unconscious_ with a vividness that has not come over him so quickly in a long time. He jerks himself forward to stay present. Penny turns to him, ears perked, and rests her head on his lap with a concerned little huff.

His name is Adam. Back during the trial, Bucky had been asked in a sneering, judgmental tone if he’d be able to recognize everyone he’d slept with and he had said he didn’t know, but the unbelievable vividness with which he remembered this man makes him think yes, he’d know them all, trauma buried itself too deep in his brain to ever be uprooted or to wash away with time. Bucky closes his eyes and sways slightly, bringing his hands down to rest in Penny’s fur, and tries to calculate how to escape this.

He’s at least fifty; he looks older now, like he’s on the other end of a rough few months, hunched a little in a cheap torn jacket, hair disheveled. He sits next to a woman who eyes him and moves down a few seats.

He hasn’t seen Bucky yet. Bucky feels briefly unraveled with panic. The subway car is populated but not packed, early afternoon on a weekday, enough people that someone would intervene if something happened.

This guy was never overly violent, Bucky reminds himself, though even as he’s thinking it he is flushed with images and sounds that he wishes he could forget. Not overly violent; didn’t ever drug him, didn’t hit him so hard it knocked him out, always used lube. The bar is laughably low.

Bucky stares at him; beyond the panic, stirred up in his chest like rising mud and sediment swirling through dirty water, is disgust, hot and sharp on the edges. What kind of adult wanted to fuck and tie up and hit a seventeen-year-old. What must he have looked like, allowing that to happen. It must have been like burying a baby animal.

He feels a very brief, grief-tinted wave of compassion for his former self.

He’s sitting in one of the corner seats, legs open, scrolling through his phone. Bucky’s breathing is quick and terrified; he tugs Penny in front of him so she is close, blocking him off. The woman who moved has settled across from Bucky, apparently clocking him as unthreatening, and gives him a small, irritated smile, a slight lift of her eyebrows. 

Bucky can get off at the next stop. It will be three, four minutes until he’s at thirty-fourth street and can leave this car. 

Then the subway slows and shudders to a halt. Over the speakers, it’s announced that the train ahead is being held by its dispatcher. Bucky closes his eyes.

When he opens them, the guy is looking at him, head cocked, trying to figure out if he knows Bucky. Bucky’s breath has abandoned him; he bites the inside of his cheek until he is startled by the hot, metallic taste of copper and he holds onto Penny’s leash.

When Bucky forces his eyes back to the guy, he is still staring. He looks bewildered more than anything else, almost humiliated. Bucky, close to panic, slips his hand into his bag and feels aimlessly until his fingers close around the Mace that he has been carrying for the last two years.

The train lurches to a start. Penny, concerned, nudges his wrist for attention. Shamelessly, the guy is still staring.

He stands, then and starts towards Bucky. He stumbles a little with the oscillation of the train. Bucky uncaps the Mace and swallows hard.

“James?” Adam says, casually, the way Bucky might greet someone he went to high school with. “It is, right?”

He is not hostile or even mocking, and a flare of rage goes up in Bucky. Bucky barks out a cold laugh.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he says, and feels rather proud of himself for the surety with which he says it. The guy has the audacity to look surprised that the man he bought sex from when he was seventeen years old doesn’t want to catch up. The other four or five people around them have taken an interest, but Bucky doesn’t care because the subway car has pulled into the next stop and he is up and out of his seat before Adam can say anything.

“Oh, fuck you too, you dirty little slag!” he shouts, and he begins to say something else but mercifully, the doors close and he has not followed Bucky. Bucky becomes aware, through Penny, that his chest is coiled tight and he hasn’t taken a breath since he stood up and when he does, it is a whimpery, petrified gasp. The braver, more capable part of him gets himself up the stairs to the sidewalk, where he trembles for a minute, looks around to be sure he hasn’t been followed, and gets a car to where he’s going.

***

Steve arrives to Wanda and Sam’s place a little earlier and with a bottle of expensive eggnog. Bucky is on his way and will be there soon. Their apartment, which has only recently become Sam’s apartment too, is bright and warm, a small Christmas tree in front of the window and a heavy brass Menorah that had belonged to Wanda’s family in the center of their table beside a bushel of roses and lots of trendy, colorful art and posters on the wall, some of them designed by Wanda, alongside a few paintings Steve had given them. Steve, laughing, hugs them each, presents the bottle, tells them that Bucky will be there soon.

Steve has missed him terribly this week, which is a funny thought. Bucky has had meetings with editors and agents and publishers, a work schedule that is probably not even half of the time that most couples their age spend apart, but still. He has grown so used to the comfort of Bucky’s presence in their tiny studio, the hours of unpressured comfort stretching between them, their quiet focus on their respective work undisturbed by one another. Sometimes one will leave and return with a coffee or a mug of tea or a prepared salad, a gift that is thanked with a quick kiss on the cheek and warm smile. Their life is so beautiful. The last two weeks or so, when Bucky and Penny will be missing for several hours at a time, Steve has felt his absence.

Sam opens his mouth with an expectant, pointed look, and Steve knows what he is about to be goaded for but he is spared by the immediate shrill again of the doorbell. “That was faster than I thought,” Steve says. Wanda heads down to let him in, and when they return, she has a hand on his shoulder and Bucky is very pale. Clementine, Wanda’s hairless cat, takes one look at Penny and makes herself scarce.

“Hey, love.” Steve kisses his cheek. Bucky allows him to, eyes glazed, shoulders tense. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says weakly. “Hey, Stevie. Hey, Sam. Thanks for having us over, guys.” His body is fraught with something unsettled, even as he hangs his coat and smiles around at them. Steve lays a hand on his back and catches Bucky’s eye, cocking his head slightly. Bucky replies with a small shake of his head, lowering his gaze briefly: _nothing, I’ll tell you later, it’s okay_. Steve squeezes him lightly on the hip, and Bucky smiles, genuine.

It is nice, that dinner, the four of them sitting around Wanda and Sam’s small table. Sam has just finished his third semester of graduate school, the relief of finals being lifted leaving him almost giddy, laughing the longest at the least funny jokes, excitement dimming only when Bucky asks him how exams went.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam says, “I hate taking tests. I felt alright about my papers, but…”

Wanda rolls her eyes. “I don’t have to tell you guys that he’s being stupid,” she says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gonna get summa cum laude again.”

“Of course he is,” Steve agrees. Sam, sheepishly, grins.

“Wanda’s got like two dozen orders before the holidays,” Sam tells them. Now it is her turn to blush. “Some rich lady asked her to make complimentary dresses for her three daughters today.”

“Yeah, she offered me way more than I would’ve actually charged for a commission, so.” She raises her glass, a faint glow of pride on her face. Bucky grins at her, delighted. Wanda, in the last year or so, has gained something of a following with her own work, mostly flowy, whimsical dresses she sells at the store she works in with Maggie, where she is now a partner. She is wearing one right now, an airy long dress, black with cherries smaller than dimes. Bucky’s favorite dress shirt is from her, lavender with little rounded off clouds on it. He’s so proud of her.

“Congrats, babe,” Bucky says. She blows him a kiss. 

They sit in the living room around Sam and Wanda’s coffee table eating ice cream out of colorful bowls and drinking eggnog and talking about respective holiday plans for some time. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve knows when he has crossed the point of socializing being pleasant into exhausting. He fades out of the conversation and listens, smiling and laughing at the right times but quieted with a kind of glazed neutrality. Everyone around knows him well enough not to push or be offended, but when Steve lays a hand in the small of his back and mentions that they should head out, Bucky gives him the barest squeeze of his hip in thanks.

They take a car home. It is cold enough outside that their windows go opaque and passing New York becomes a streak of clouded whites and reds, like it has all been washed out in watercolor. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder and Steve lifts a hand to write against the glass _S+B_ , emphasized with a careless heart around it. Bucky smiles wearily.

“You alright, angel?” Steve asks him, voice soft. The clouded windows make them feel suspended in their own endless dome. It is almost content.

“Um,” Bucky says. “On the subway, uh. I saw a guy who used to be a client.” Bucky’s voice is very small, partly because of their driver’s presence, although he isn’t listening and couldn’t care less.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” Bucky grimaces down, then runs a hand through Penny’s flank. “Did he—did he say anything to you?” In the quiet backseat, it comes out calmly, even though Steve is swallowing back a vague rise of distress.

“Um. Yeah. He saw me when I was just about to get off and he was like, ‘James, right?’ Like we were old fucking friends or something. And I told him to fuck off. And then as I was getting off, um. He yelled, ‘fuck you too, you dirty little slag.’” Bucky shivers. “And, um. It just fucking freaked me out.”

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Steve sys quietly. “Fuck. What a piece of shit. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You can’t be with me all the time,” Bucy mumbles. He lowers his head, exhausted. “God. He, um. This guy looked… he looked so pathetic, Steve. He just looked like this fucking miserable, pathetic old man. But he—it still scared me.”

It is a relief to get home. Immediately, Bucky heads to the shower, pausing only to kiss Alpine and Clover. While he waits, Steve makes himself and Bucky a tea and brings them upstairs, where he lays down and scrolls aimlessly through Instagram until Bucky returns. He worms himself into Steve’s lap, body folded up like a ragdoll, face buried in Steve’s neck, skin still warm. Steve rubs his back wordlessly. Vulnerability quivers off of Bucky.

“Okay, baby?” Steve asks him, so softly. He works his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky nods, the action small. His eyelashes graze Steve’s neck. Steve kisses him on the top of the head.

“Feel bad tonight,” Bucky mumbles. “I just—I feel bad. I feel gross. Fuck. That guy got to me, I guess. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, angel,” Steve says quietly. “Can I do anything?”

Bucky blinks some of the haze out of his eyes. “Could you—could you draw?” His voice is small, almost young.

This has become something between them, a kind of agreement that always turns Steve’s heart over with emotion when Bucky asks it of him. The trust that it requires, the things Bucky has overcome to get to a point where allowing Steve to draw in pen over scars is a form of comfort, is almost too much for Steve to bear. It feels the same way it does when they make love; like Steve is holding something precious and volatile that he, in some undeserved privilege, has been granted the right to. 

“Mhm,” Steve says. Bucky’s eyes go soft and relieved. “Yeah, baby, of course.” Bucky swings his legs off of Steve’s lap and settles beside him, lifting his shirt enough so that Steve can draw just below his ribs. Over the last few years, the scarring has settled into its final orientation, sanded down to something less noticeable but still there, still immediately identifiable when Steve runs his fingers over Bucky’s chest and back and thighs. Recently, it occurred to Steve that he knows the shapes of all of them, could etch them out into braille if he had to. He did not tell Bucky that, but it filled him with a fugue of sadness.

This, though, is less about the scars now. “It feels good for me,” Bucky told Steve once. “It’s like, an autonomy thing, I guess. I like that I can trust you with it.”

Steve kisses his stomach once, delighted when Bucky laughs. Gently, Bucky brings his hands into Steve’s hair and massages lightly. “Whatcha drawing?” he asks.

“A giraffe.”

“No, you’re not.” Steve quirks one eyebrow, and Bucky raises himself onto his elbows to look and then bursts out laughing. “You’re so stupid.”

“Mm, maybe I’ll submit this one to the Met.”

Bucky giggles, falling back again. Steve is so in love with him. “Hey,” Bucky says, “c’mere.”

Steve raises himself up so he and Bucky are eye level again. Bucky kisses him, slow and syrupy, sighing into it so the soft thrum of his breath becomes Steve’s. “I love you,” Bucky says, breaking the kiss only to say that.

“I love you,” Steve answers. “I’m so sorry that happened today, Buck.”

Bucky sighs, rolling completely onto his side so the two of them are symmetrical in bed. “It’s alright,” he says quietly. “Still a nice night anyway.”

***

Steve, a few nights later, returns home late. His current biggest project is an installation at the MOMA, where he has been given a small, white room and told to fill it with whatever he wants. He has finished up a few dozen paintings, the most he has ever displayed in one place, and is now in the process of assembling it. 

What he has done is painted portraits of his home in all of its wonderful mundanities. One of them is a picture of his kitchen that takes up most of a wall, every detail painted almost to scale, the cluster of sunflowers on the counter and the cats at the window and the two cereal bowls he and Bucky had left out the morning Steve took the picture that he would reference for it, the spoons leaning against each other. The rest of them are smaller and more concentrated: both his and Bucky’s desks and bedside tables as viewed from above, their bathroom sink, a smear of steam still ghosting the mirror above it, the stove as Bucky cooked a meal, bright red peppers sizzling in the pan. He is trying to lay them out in the room so it feels like walking through a home, paintings suspended from cables on the ceiling so that viewers are forced to look at the paintings in a general order, but he doesn’t know if that will succeed.

It’s a long day there, trying to gently instruct museum employees who want to impress him, and it has been dark for a long time when he leaves. On his way to the subway, he spots a coat in the window of a boutique on 5th Avenue and buys it for Bucky, another Christmas present secured. When he gets home, he is tired but happy, energized again by the warmth of his home, the red Christmas tree glow in the living room and the smell of something rich and wintery that Bucky is making and the sound of him humming quietly to an Amy Winehouse song. Steve laughs to himself at the thought that he could replicate this in any form.

“Hey, baby,” he calls, hanging his coat and stashing the gift bag into a closet by the door that never gets used. 

“Hey,” Bucky calls back happily. In the kitchen, he is standing over a big pot and stirring. The cats sit in their respective shoe boxes on the ground, and Penny lies at Bucky’s feet. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky from behind and kisses his ear, smiling when Bucky turns his head enough to peck Steve’s lips.

“Whatcha making?”

“Fifteen bean soup.”

“That’s a lot of beans.”

Bucky grins. “Yeah. Prepare to have your mind blown.”

“Smells amazing.”

“It will be.” Steve nuzzles his chin into Bucky’s shoulder to make him laugh. “How was the MOMA?”

“Hm, long. Good, I think. I hate the assembling part of exhibits.”

“It’s gonna be great.”

“Thanks, my love.”

Bucky smiles. “Try this,” he says, lifting his spoon, “tell me if it needs anything.”

Steve does. “Nope. Just maybe some cheese sprinkled in it.” Bucky looks pleased. “Hey, how long does fifteen bean soup take, anyway?”

“Ten hours if you count letting the beans soak. Two to make.” He sweeps his hair back and goes back to stirring.

“Everything okay?” Steve says, and squeezes Bucky’s hip gently.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“That just seems like maybe an anxiety meal.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Um,” he says, “yeah, no, I’m good. Just… reviews are gonna start coming in really soon, Hope said.”

Hope, Bucky’s long ago editor from Vulture who has returned again to be his publisher. Steve smiles.

“That’s huge, babe.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll see.”

“They’re gonna like it.”

“Mhm.”

“They’re gonna quit their jobs ‘cause they’ll never read a book as good as this one again.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Well, I think our fifteen bean soup is ready.” But he is smiling. He squeezes Steve’s hand. “I’ve got a meeting with her tomorrow, anyway.”

“Good.” Steve says. Bucky smiles, tiredly but brightly. Then he rests his forehead briefly against Steve’s shoulder before breaking away and reaching for bowls.

They eat at the table together, their legs hooked at the ankles, one tall candle burning between them. Steve tells Bucky about his day, the lethargy of moving his own work around a few feet or inches while a team of people ask him if he’s sure about the placement, his own doubt that this exhibit will be as interesting as he hopes it will. Bucky listens, then tells him that, having seen the paintings, he can confirm that it will be fantastic. Steve smiles and asks if he wants to come see it this week before it opens, and Bucky says of course.

“So who got the book to review?” Steve asks him.

Bucky, pushing a chickpea around the rim of his bowl, says, “Uh, you know. The Times, New Yorker, Vox, Vulture, Buzzfeed. A couple opinionated people on Goodreads.”

“How anxious are you?” Steve asks him. “One to ten.”

Bucky considers this. “Today I googled ‘meanest book reviews’ to try to preemptively comfort myself.” Steve snorts, and even Bucky smirks. “Didn’t work.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve tells him. Bucky shrugs. Steve leans forward and kisses him, brushing a wild strand of hair back, smiling against his lips. “And even if you did get bad reviews—which you won’t—it’s not like some hack at Buzzfeed or the Times’ opinions are the be-all end-all.”

“Mhm,” Bucky says, but he’s smiling. “That would be your opinion, right?”

“Exactly.” Steve kisses him again; happily, Bucky reciprocates. “And my opinion is that it’s a masterpiece and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.”

“Profound,” Bucky quips back, grinning. He begins to gather the bowls, but Steve takes it from him.

“I got dishes. You did the ten hour meal.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, squeezing his shoulder. “I am gonna get in the shower, if you want to join me.” Steve grins at him.

Mostly, these days, there is no need for clothes in the shower and bath. Sometimes Bucky still asks if they can keep on boxers and tee shirts, and Steve always, always agrees, but tonight there is no twitch of discomfort. Steve finishes the dishes and heads upstairs, where the bathroom is already full of steam. He knocks, and Bucky says come in, and Steve undresses and joins him under the spray and kisses him lightly.

Steve’s hands move gently and chastely through his hair and over his body, suds pouring down to their feet. Around them, steam and the sweet ginger-spice smell of the fancy body wash that Bucky bought last week. Bucky kisses Steve, light and unworried. 

They finish up, soft towels pulled around them, giggly kisses in the leftover mist. Bucky pulls on a soft silk shirt and coral satin briefs. Steve, in the bedroom, is putting away some folded clothes and does not look up until Bucky approaches behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle and holding on. There is a familiar, not anxious but not entirely pleasant rush in his chest, the little whimper for approval in his body.

Steve gives it to him. He turns around to kiss Bucky’s hair and his eyes go huge and warm, a little click of breathlessness in his throat. Bucky smiles.

“Hi,” he whispers. Steve, very carefully, places his hands on Bucky’s hips, and Bucky nods, flooded with warmth when Steve moves his thumbs in tiny, patient circles.

“Hi yourself,” Steve says. “You look, uh. Incredibly hot.”

Bucky laughs. There is never anything possessive when Steve says things like this.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve whispers. He knows the answer is yes, but Bucky is still happy he asks. He nods, and their mouths come gently together, the clean, faint taste of toothpaste between them making Bucky smile. 

“Can I take you to bed?” 

Bucky smirks but nods. Steve blushes. It is kind of a thing between them. One time, he had said, “make love” and Bucky had laughed so hard he’d smacked his head on the headboard and bit his cheek, and one time he’d said, “Can I fuck you, baby?” and Bucky’d recoiled. Even now, when Bucky comes out of the bathroom in silk and wraps himself around Steve, Steve will ask him for consent flat out, no matter what. He will ask several more times this evening, Bucky knows. Bucky needs that, still. There is always a likely possibility that he changes his mind partway through. But he does not tonight.

They take a few steps back, and Bucky is the one to get into bed first, Steve following him, leaning over him, kissing his neck with impossible tenderness. He smiles at the little hitch of breathlessness in Bucky’s body, the soft entanglement of their legs. 

The sex is gentle and slow, never a whisper of anything otherwise. Afterwards, Steve gathers Bucky against his chest and holds him while he shivers, not unpleasantly, just rocked and spent and overwhelmed with adrenaline. This always happens in some form. The first time, Bucky had been too overwhelmed to speak, and Steve had been terrified that he had done something wrong and Bucky would recoil and beg and cower, but the reaction is not fear. Steve holds him, rubbing his back and smoothing over his hair and kissing his face and whispering lovely things to him until Bucky sighs and kisses him, chaste and fast and smiling. Neither of them mind turning the shower back on.

“Okay?” Steve asks Bucky, when they have settled again. Bucky nods and smiles. There is nothing prompting Steve’s question, but he is happy Steve asks it anyway. 

“Good,” he confirms, and lays his head against Steve’s chest. “Love you.”

Steve kisses the top of his head. “Love you so much.”

Later, when all the lights have been turned off for some time and Bucky is caught in the gummy and surreal place between sleep and consciousness, Steve kisses the back of his neck. In his half-conscious, hazy state, Bucky smiles and sighs, snuggling deeper into the pillow. The sheets are cool and comfortable, and Steve’s arm around his waist is protective.

But then it is tighter, bordering on possessive. “Steve,” Bucky mumbles, “‘s too tight, let me sleep.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Instead, he flips Bucky onto his stomach, his movements crude and intrusive, and Bucky, half asleep, cannot even think of the name for what is happening though he knows it isn’t alright. He moans, frightened and uncomfortable.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Steve says, though his voice is metallic and gravelly. “Just relax.”

“Stop,” Bucky gasps, though it comes out throttled and afraid because Steve’s arm is pressed into his back, restraining him with no effort. “Stop, _stop_.”

“Buck,” Steve says, although now his voice has settled back to its usual gentle, golden laced tone. “Buck, you’re okay, it’s just a bad dream, you’re okay, wake up baby.”

With a shudder, Bucky does. He shucks his head back and forth, pain swinging, pendulumic, to either side of his head. The room comes back to him in pieces, the unintuitive brightness from the lamp on Steve’s bedside table disorienting at this time of night. Bucky scrubs a hand across his face.

“Fuck,” he says softly. He props himself up enough to rest against the headboard, grateful when Steve reaches out and lets Bucky clasp his hands. “Did I—Did I say anything?”

Steve’s eyes drop a fraction. “Just, um. Just ‘stop.’” Bucky swallows hard. He could cry, but he doesn’t quite have the effort. Instead, he leans into Steve’s side and lets his head loll into his neck. “You’re okay, Buck.”

“I know,” Bucky says. He shuts his eyes, and from the hitch in Steve’s chest and the specific tightening of his shoulders, knows he is about to apologize. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Steve says anyway. Bucky rolls his eyes. “Maybe—”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.” He says this with no malice, just exhaustion. “You are literally the nicest fucking boyfriend on the face of the earth. Stop beating yourself up.”

“I’m not beating myself up,”

“Yeah, you are. I can hear it.”

Steve laughs weakly. “Stop. I should be taking care of you right now.”

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s middle. Steve, evidently relieved, lowers himself into lying down again so Bucky can lie on top of him. Bucky, clouded by unidentifiable anxiety, hooks one leg inside of Steve’s, a little confirmation of closeness, like he is trying to ensure that they stay tethered in the event of some catastrophe. Steve kisses the top of his head.

“Steve?”

“Hm?”

“It’s not you. I promise.” Bucky’s voice seems frail in the dark.

“Buck—”

“I’m sorry. I’m fucking—I’m trying.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, very quietly. “You don’t have to—to ‘try’ for me. I mean… it’s nightmares, babe, it’s—You aren’t doing _anything_ wrong.”

“I know,” Bucky says. He almost smiles at the ease in which they now have these conversations, whispered, introspective talks at three am taking on a casualness. “I just—god. I hate that this is part of it.”

“Me too,” Steve tells him. “But it’s okay. You know that, right? It’s all okay, and it’s okay if you don’t want to anymore.”

“I’d tell you, Steve.”

Bucky feels Steve’s lips crescent into a smile. “Okay. Good.”

Six months ago, Steve and Bucky had sex for the first time. Sex, to them, is a broad concept—as it should be to everyone, Bucky often thinks irritably—but what they have just now begun to be alright with is sex as everyone else defines it, with no gray area for what they are doing. In June, in their home. It was quiet, Bucky remembers feeling, like arriving back home after a long and tiring trip away and settling onto your favorite chair, all of your surroundings familiar and glowing with new warmth that you’d never been aware of before, even the disorientation not quite big enough to damper the joy. Afterwards, he had trembled for a long time, his body overwhelmed with the experience of sex not being suffering, nowhere to put all of that adrenaline, and Steve held him against his chest, kissing his face and stroking his hair and telling him it was okay, he was safe, he was good. Sometimes, even now, Bucky thinks back on that night and has to blink through a vague pink fog to remember it was real, he was really that loved. He is really that loved.

They have tried again several more times since then, and sometimes it works and sometimes Bucky makes Steve stop. Bucky, frustrated with himself, will sometimes think how insane it is to be twenty-four years old and have to talk about every individual sexual experience he has with his longterm boyfriend, how shameful. And then, with a shuddery, patient breath, he will remind himself that recovery, in some ways, is a lifetime commitment, and it is okay that sex is complicated for him because that’s what happens when you have years of sexual trauma. He is better at these thoughts than he was two years ago. But still.

So they have only had sex five times in six months, but they are both more than okay with that. Bucky has found that when he does not feel a terrible rush of anxiety and need to make Steve stop, he enjoys sex, all because of Steve, because of the ways Steve has helped Bucky reconstruct sex, has recostructed it himself.

In an unmarked, unimportant box in their studio they have a list, handwritten on a sheet of looseleaf, their agreements. At first, it had felt so unbearably humiliating that Bucky hadn’t even entertained the idea. Conversations about it are one thing. Having to write out a faux contract with his boyfriend for what is and is not allowed during sex felt, to Bucky, like a pathetic step too far even for him. But Jennifer told him it might make him feel better, getting something clear and unmistakable written down, might ease the worry of any ambiguity that might allow Steve to hurt him lording over him. So he tried it.

“I, um,” he said to Steve, when he broached it. “I know this is so fucking weird, um, and we don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just… Jennifer said it might, um, help to—to like, um, put down my like—the things I’m not really comfortable with, so we can talk about it, um. If that’s alright.” And Steve being Steve had kissed his cheek and said yes, of course, absolutely.

Bucky’s list is predictable and miserable. Steve, when he’d looked at it, had swallowed the urge to say, _Bucky, do you really think I need to be told not to do these things to you?_ Then he’d remembered the answer was yes, Bucky did think that, so Steve had looked it over ( _Never, under any circumstances, at least right now: hitting, any kind of belt or tool, handcuffs or restraints, drugs or poppers, blindfolds, degrading name calling and threats, refusing to use lube or condoms_ ) sadly noted the way Bucky’s handwriting slanted and trembled and the lack of any first person pronouns, and kissed his forehead.

“Yeah, baby. I promise I’d never do any of this even if we didn’t have a list, okay?” Bucky nodded, relieved, and slouched into Steve’s arms.

Jennifer had been right, though; having it discussed that bluntly and explicitly gave Bucky some sense of control. The existence of this piece of paper had scratched some itch that Bucky had not been able to define, a paranoia that if Steve ever had decided not to listen to him (which he wouldn’t, Bucky knows, but could not always hold on to; it has gotten much, much easier to remember) there is physical proof that Steve would be going back on a promise he had made. Steve, more to soothe Bucky than because he felt he needed to, had added with a star _if one of us says to stop, the other does, no matter what_ , and Bucky had smiled at him. Then Steve signed it loopily, handed the pen to Bucky, and kissed him when he scoffed and scribbled his name, too.

Bucky is almost twenty-five, and his relationship is the thing in his life he is most secure in, and that is not because of sex. This thought fills him with peace. His sex life is a work-in-progress, as some other factors of his life still are, but the terrible urgency that had once filled him, the conviction that the clock was running out on Steve’s willingness to wait, has not plagued him in a long time. Perhaps that is why, however infrequently, he is able to be touched like that by Steve; it only became possible two-plus years into their relationship and therapy, at a time in Bucky’s life when the acidic pressure that had once existed constantly around sex had become manageable. 

The unfortunate reminders, though, are there. Bucky has long stopped imagining a future where sex is thoughtless and uncomplicated. That was like trying to flatten deeply crumpled and torn paper back to looking untouched; there is a limit on the amount of repairment one can do. Accepting that has only recently begun to feel like a realistic task. He is okay, now, with his limits, his need for lots of foreplay and reassurance and for long recovery periods between sex, sometimes weeks of it, his total aversion to anything beyond the most vanilla sex and to other things, like giving a blowjob in the forseeable or unforseeable future.

The thing he is least okay with is the nightmares that have happened, without fail, every time.

Two years of largely undisturbed peace has softened both of them, their sharpest edges worn down a bit with time and with no more enormous threats. They have plateaued into a form of happiness that has been tailored and personalized to them. Things are, by no one else’s standards, normal. The remains of what they have been through, of what Bucky, specifically, has been through, are interwoven into their relationship with one another and their relationships to others and to the world. They have not outgrown trauma; rather, they have constructed their lives into a way it is manageable. Bucky, several years out from the last time he was assaulted, still wakes up whimpering and shaking more nights than he would like to, and Steve is there to hold him. Bucky would have liked the nightmares to have vanished, but they have not, and so he counters them as they come, in therapy, in the moment, breathing and letting Steve rub his back and holding Penny, secure in his coping mechanisms now, clinging, however desperately, to the knowledge that it will end and he will settle back into sleep in Steve’s arms. The bad dreams and flashbacks and moments of confused terror are fewer and farther between than they have ever been, and that, Bucky knows, is a good thing. But they are there, predictable and certain, after sex.

It frustrates Bucky to tears. Jennifer suggested, probably correctly, that his body still holds the knowledge of sex as something unsafe, and the physical sensations of it, the soreness and exhaustion, worm their way into his subconscious when he is trying to sleep. He spent four years being afraid after sex, and he has now, five times, had sex that he did not have to be afraid during. His body is still unlearning the terror cues. This all makes total sense to Bucky.

But it does not make it any less deflating. In the middle of the night, when he is thrust awake and in tears, it feels like an unforgivable failure on his part, a reminder of his freakishness and inability to have a normal relationship with his boyfriend who has already given up so much for him. In the day, when the sharp edges have softened into compassion and pragmatism, it is an unfair little twist in his gut, a sacrifice he feels he is making by wanting to sleep with Steve.

He has not told Steve this, but the dreams are vivid and bizarre, and always leave him with a film of grime. There are the faces that always appear in his nightmares, the terrible flashback dreams that are so realistic they seem to tear the fabric of linear time, but now there are new ones that Bucky has never experienced before, too, terrible and experimental dreams that shake him. He dreamt last time that Steve was fucking him, but nothing like he had in real life, rough and violent in front of a camera, and when it was over Bucky realized everyone he knew and everyone who had ever hurt him had viewed it. He had to throw up after that particular nightmare.

“Buck?”

Bucky blinks and swallows hard. Steve is watching him, worried.

“You okay, baby? You were looking a little out of it.”

Bucky blinks. He is cold with sweat. He touches his forehead and nods.

“Sorry,” he whispers. When Steve looks pained, he adds, “You know what I mean.”

Steve kisses him on the forehead. “What would help?”

With a vague shake of his head, Bucky buries his face in Steve's chest and sighs when Steve pulls him closer, his hands sure and steady on his back. “Its okay, honey, you’re okay.”

Bucky squeezes his hand. The panic is beginning to fade. Already, his breath comes back to him, and he squeezes to Steve and even the faint physical sensations of what they did earlier don’t feel dirty or shameful but neutral, almost comforting with Steve’s arms around him. He is not aware of when he falls asleep again, only that when he does, it is in almost total safety.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i titled chapters this one would be called "loving and appreciating bucky"

Bryant Park at Christmastime, a whirl of paper cups of hot chocolate and giftbags full of expensive candles and sweaters and books. Steve and Bucky are standing in The Strand’s booth, trying to find gifts for Carol and Maria. Bucky, hands hidden in soft black gloves, flips through the novel that had won the Booker prize last year. “I liked this,” he says, “Carol probably would.”

Steve slips his hand to Bucky’s waist and kisses his cheek. “Hey,” he says, “in a week, your book is gonna be in these piles.”

Bucky looks up at him, an anxious, rosy flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, sure,” he says, “some random twenty-five year old’s first novel.” It is only as an afterthought that he thinks of himself as a hooker, and he manages to shrug the thought away. “Yeah, let’s get this.”

They’re seeing a musical on forty-fifth street in two hours. The artificial city brightness in the chill makes them both feel jerked awake, the dark winter evening washed away by neon billboards. Bucky holds on tight to Steve while they cross Times Square.

“So,” Steve says, “have you thought about where you wanna throw the book party?”

“What?”

“You know, a venue.”

Bucky snorts. “I thought you were joking about that.” Steve, the other day, had asked Bucky if he wanted Steve to start looking for a venue for a party. Bucky, already late to a meeting with Hope, had laughed and kissed Steve’s cheek and told him yeah, get that tacky place we went to senior prom at. He had not thought about it since.

“Why would I be?”

“I’m not gonna throw a book party, Steve. That’s so, like, self absorbed.”

“How?”

“Inviting all our friends to some overpriced restaurant to celebrate something I did?”

“I can’t see anything self absorbed about that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Steve, no, that’s narcissistic.”

“You,” Steve tells him, “have a very warped view of narcissism.”

“I will think about it,” Bucky tells him, not serious.

“Don’t think too hard,” Steve says, and kisses his nose.

***

But he forgets about it instantaneously. That week, he meets with Hope for the last time, in her pretty glass office by Columbus Circle, a dark shelf behind her of books that she has edited and the two that she published. She got offered the job of editor-in-chief of a big deal publishing house about a year before. As far as Bucky can tell, she’s doing a very good job. She is as good a fiction editor as she had been a nonfiction editor all those months earlier. She has a comforting intimidation about her. Everything she says is important and final but never harsh, at least towards him. He always feels a bit like a child in their principal’s office when he sits across from her here.

“So,” Hope is saying to him. “It’s getting sent out for print tomorrow. It’s out of your hands.”

The words give Bucky a thrilling, anxious rush. She smiles at him. It has been nice to work with her again for this. She’s been in publishing for the last two years and she was the only one he submitted a manuscript to when, after several months of pressure from mostly T’Challa and Steve, Bucky finally decided, very tentatively, to try and get published a novel he has worked on and off on for three years. He is still not convinced it would have gotten anywhere if Hope didn’t like T’Challa and know Bucky already, even though everyone he has voiced that insecurity to has told him it’s ridiculous.

Bucky, when he’s clutching Steve’s arm at a party and fighting the still-present anxiety that comes over him in social situations and he is asked what he does, says, “I’m a writer.” He always feels himself flush slightly when he gives that answer, constantly waiting for someone to sneer at him. But so far, they haven’t.

And for all intents and purposes, Bucky _is_ a writer. He reminds himself of that when he sits, staring at his laptop screen and feeling debilitated with uselessness, unable to shake the imaginary images of people seeing his name in print and scoffing, or feeling unable to produce a single sentence that is not stilted and forced. He has, now, been published in a scattering of literary magazines, all of them stacked neatly on the shelf above his desk so he can pull them down and stare at them to remind himself that someone thought his writing was good enough to be published. He has won seven thousand dollars in prize money across various contests, the first financial contribution he has made to his and Steve’s life and the first money he has made from something that wasn’t sex work in eight years. He has a website designed by Scott, he has an agent who T’Challa introduced him to. 

Bucky has come to think of him as something of a mentor. He still feels the same glow of accomplishment when T’Challa compliments him on work in passing, still feels welcomed, somehow, into a world that he has always admired but had no business really being in. He and Nakia had had Bucky and Steve over for dinner a few months before, springtime in their warm backyard, baby monitor set in the center of the table between an empty salad bowl and full bottle of wine. 

T’Challa had been on him about submissions before. Bucky, by then, was accustomed to emails from him for various prestigious contests, a warm paternal nudging towards success that still made him feel inadequate. T’Challa was having another novel published, already high on every preorder list, the lazy success that comes at that point in one’s career. Bucky had read most of it and could concur that all of the early buzz was deserved. That night, T’Challa had been telling a story about a last-minute hassle involving his publishing company and the printing press, which he concluded by smiling at Bucky and saying, “My agent would hate me for saying this, but when it’s your time, find a different publishing house.”

Bucky laughed, dismissive. “You know,” T’Challa added, “Hope—you remember Hope, obviously—Hope is working in book publishing now.”

“Really?” Bucky said.

“Mhm. She spent a long time trying to convince me to sign with her.” He waited expectantly, then, with a warm smirk, added, “She’s always looking for good things to publish.” Bucky blushed a little. T’Challa, unrelenting, said “I have a friend who’s a literary agent. I believe she’s taking on new clients.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, and flushed. “No, I mean…” And he dismissed it, self-conscious enough that T’Challa knew not to push him, but he had felt Steve’s eyes on him and fervently ignored him.

Indeed, later that night, in the bathroom while Bucky brushed his teeth, Steve said, “Why not?”

“Hm?” Bucky, mouth full of toothpaste, cocking his head.

“Why not get in touch with an agent?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, spat into the sink, and rinsed his mouth. “‘Cause that’s dumb, Steve. You have to be like, really, really good to get published.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and grinned. “You do. And you are.”

“I’m okay. I’m not publishable.”

“Uh, several journals and magazines have thought otherwise.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“How come?” Steve looked not quite upset, not quite frustrated, but faintly hurt, a distress that Bucky knew was on his own behalf and that he never knows how to respond to. It is the look Steve used to give him when Bucky said hateful things about himself, only more mild now, less miserable, but still the same idea, a kind of pain at the reminder that Bucky does not hold himself up as highly as Steve does.

Bucky sighed. “It’s not a bad thing, Stevie. But like, I’m just not that good. I don’t have a degree, I have, like, a reputation already, kind of, I’m not like… I don’t think that kind of success is for me.”

And it always pained Steve to hear Bucky sell himself short so matter-of-factly, but it rarely annoyed him like this. How, he wondered later, could Bucky be so blindsided to his own talents, so impervious to the praise and the contests and the publications that he apparently believed were handed out to just anyone. 

He softened considerably the next morning when Bucky brought it up again. They were standing in the kitchen, fragile morning light making everything feel tender, a softness exacerbated by their pajamas and sleep-swept hair and the smell of fresh coffee. These conditions always make conversation easier. Bucky had rested his head on Steve’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t want to humiliate myself.”

“Huh?” A little bewildered, Steve turned to look at his face.

Bucky rubbed his wrist. “I, um. I think that if I tried to like, publish a novel, everyone would just, like, see me as this, um, ex-hooker with no education who’s using his boyfriend’s connections to get ahead.”

“Baby,” Steve said quietly. “No one would think that.”

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky said, with a wrung-out little smile. “Yeah, they would.”

An ache in his chest, Steve says, “I—maybe there’d be, like, a fraction of shitty elitist people whose opinions mean less than nothing who’d think that. No one who matters.”

A cloud had passed over the sun, so the room grew pearly. “Still.”

Steve, collecting the clumsy reassurance that he wanted to pour forward, squeezed Bucky’s shoulder gently. “Buck. I… look, if you aren’t interested in trying, obviously, it’s your choice. But if—but if you’re sitting on this really, really impressive thing you’ve accomplished, and you’re thinking of yourself in this warped way that’s stopping you from sending it out, I think that’s dumb.” Bucky’s mouth twisted up reluctantly. “Just think on it, okay? Seriously.”

In any case, Bucky owes Steve the decision to try, but he owes the reality to T’Challa and Okoye and Hope. He met with Okoye for the first time last March in her cozy office in Madison Square Park, going over the publishing houses she could submit his manuscript to, agreeing profusely when she suggested they go to Randomhouse first, see if Hope was interested.

When she called him to tell him that yes, in fact, Hope’s publishing company wanted a full sample transcript sent to them, Bucky had been at Scott’s with Steve, babysitting Cassie. Bucky was in the kitchen fetching her a bowl of Cheerios, and he had picked up the phone and when Okoye, her voice warm and proud, had informed him that they were interested in signing him on for at least this book, potentially more, he had burst into tears. After that, when Steve hugged him and kissed his face and Cassie started clapping because everyone around her was excited, he’d texted Scott, and when he arrived back home they drank champagne out of plastic kids cups. It was one of the happiest nights of Bucky’s life.

Bucky is glad, he realized recently, to be working with women. Bucky likes Clint fine, but he has gone with Steve to parties and watched the way Clint and Tony and almost all of the other men in those sleek, professional positions speak to each other, the unyielding edge of it, the startling crassness that is built into their language— _and I’ve got this new client who’s fucking me from every direction_ , that sort of thing—and had to purse his lips against the discomfort. He has tried very hard, and failed, not to be disgusted at men’s tendencies to use sexual language for violence. But he has never found that with Hope and Okoye, his two primary consultants.

Right now, Hope spins her empty cappuccino cup on her desk and smiles at him. “Congratulations,” Hope says. “I’m excited about this.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and offers a nervous smile.

“Reviews are gonna start coming in soon,” she tells him, and smiles. “The response that I’ve had so far has been great. I think it’s gonna be a hit.”

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers, and smiles down. 

“You throwing a book party?” When Bucky laughs, she raises her eyebrows.

“Oh,” he says. “Um. My boyfriend was trying to convince me to.”

“Why not?”

“It feels a little narcissistic.” Hope laughs at that, and Bucky grins despite himself.

“Bucky,” she says, “I know a lot of narcissistic writers. You aren’t one of them. Getting a novel published at twenty-five is grounds for a book party.”

He smiles at the ground. “We’ll see.”

“I suppose we will.” Hope stands and shakes his hand, made gentler with a squeeze. “Well, I’ll see you soon. Let me know if you have any questions.” Bucky smiles and thanks her. As he heads out, she hands him a parcel.

Bucky, too excited to wait, unwraps it as soon as he steps out of her office. Childishly, giddily, he looks at the cover and purses his lips against grinning too ridiculously. The elation of seeing his own name in stark, impressive letters under the title, white and intimidating against the background, fills him with weightless pride. He’s had the advanced reader’s copy for almost three months now, but even that does not compare to this. It looks sleeker, the title font tweaked, the glossy hardcover making him feel enormously proud.

He glances around him to be sure Hope or any of her important, impressive colleagues or any of the other writers they publish are around. Then, crouching down, he shows Penny and says, “Look at that, Pen!” With endearing loyalty, she gives him a kiss on the nose, very close to humoring him.

The book is about a couple over thirty years. They met in middle school and split up twice. He had felt very uncertain about it, and still does: there is a connotation to romance novels that Bucky is not immune to, paperbacks in dime stores with flashy, sexualized cowboys or princesses on the cover, poorly written porn to be read by tweens giggling in Barnes and Noble or women in passionless marriages. He voiced this anxiety to Steve before sending it to the agent that T’Challa had told him to contact. Steve snorted.

“Okay,” he said, “but, uh, that’s ridiculous. You hardly wrote _Fifty Shades._ ” Bucky actually laughed at that.

“You know what I mean though.”

“Yeah, I do. But you wrote a book about a relationship that’s literally fucking beautiful, Buck, it’s like, an actual masterpiece—”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky said, embarrassed at the praise, but Steve ignored this.

“—and I will be genuinely annoyed at you if you don’t give the world the privilege of reading it because of some invisible bias against romance novels. And also, I don’t think it’s a romance novel. It’s a love story within a novel about” —Here, Steve paused, smirked, and thought over the most pretentious thing he could say— “the human condition.” Bucky, trying with valiant effort to laugh at his boyfriend, spilled some water down his shirt by mistake. Steve, when he looked up, was grinning warmly. “Buck. Really. You’re so hard on yourself about a piece that ninety-nine percent of the world would have so much hubris about having written.”

Bucky considered this all. “You get that you’re biased though, right?”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you worship me. That’s like, textbook bias.”

Steve, looking at Bucky with a fondness that was almost too much to bear, like looking directly at the sun, said, “I do worship you, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” And when Bucky kissed him once, settled on his lap, and positioned Steve’s arms so that he was holding him from behind, Steve added, “ _Pride and Prejudice_.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a romance novel. And it’s widely regarded as one of the best books of all time.”

“I’m not Jane Austen.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Bucky had snorted. But still, a few days later, he sent a nervous email to Okoye, the agent T’Challa said he would put Bucky in touch with, and she had responded with enthusiasm that left Bucky weak with relief. 

It is not him and Steve; he was very conscious of not making it him and Steve, despite the smirks he gets from Steve and his friends when he insists on that. The real life influence is there, though, and undeniable. He had argued with Hope about the ending.

“I don’t think they should be together in the end,” she had told him. It was one of their first meetings after she had said she was interested in publishing it. 

“Oh,” Bucky said, a little deflated. “Well, um. I do.” He smiled a little sheepishly.

“A bittersweet ending is more profound,” Hope argued.

“Um,” Bucky said. “I know that—I know you know more about writing than me, but—but I disagree. I think two people kind of… sculpting out the way that they can be happy regardless of how it fits into other people’s expectations and… and, you know, working for that consciously is profound.” Then he blushed, because he worried he sounded like a college student raising his hand to argue with a professor who knew much more than him.

Hope smiled a little. “How important is it to you that the ending is happy?”

“Well,” Bucky said. “I mean. If it’s a deal breaker for getting it published, I can change it. But I’d rather not.”

And he hadn’t.

Now, he tucks the book back into his bag and heads for the subway, Penny treading happily along with him. He does not pull it out again, too afraid of dropping it and dirtying it, but he traces the spine and sides of it the whole ride home. When he does arrive, he finds Steve in the studio, wraps his arms around Steve’s neck, and kisses his cheek, grinning to himself, dazzled and giddy by his day and this very moment in his life.

“Hi, baby,” Steve says, laughing. He spins around on his stool and pulls Bucky in so he is stradling Steve’s waist and they kiss for a few moments before Bucky worms himself into Steve’s lap. “Good meeting?”

“Mhm,” Bucky says. Then, grinning, he reaches into his bag and hands Steve the book. 

“Oh!” Steve says, and Bucky laughs at him. “Oh, Buck! Holy shit! It looks so good, baby!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bucky says, giggling. Steve painted it. When Bucky had asked him to, Steve had said, surprised, “Are you sure? You wouldn’t rather have a professional?” and Bucky had snorted.

“No, just—your name! Your title! Bucky!”

Bucky giggles again and nuzzles into Steve’s neck, tickled by light scruff that Steve has been sporting for the last few weeks. 

“Hey,” he says, bumping his forehead into Steve like an overexcited housecat, a comparison Steve has made before. He doesn’t care. He has been flooded with anticipation for this moment. “Open it to the second page.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, grinning. Bucky, suddenly nervous, watches him flip the page, read what is written, and smile.

_For Steve_

_You saved me in every way a person can be saved_

Steve shakes his head. When he looks at Bucky, his gaze is one of such fondness that even after years and years, Bucky still quivers pleasantly under it.

“Did you really quote _Titanic_ in the dedication page of your first novel?” Steve says finally. Bucky doesn’t miss the choked up quality to his voice.

He grins. The dedication had not made the advanced copy: he wanted it to be a surprise at the last minute. “Yep.”

“Buck,” Steve says. His voice is so soft. “You didn’t have to dedicate it to me.”

“I know, dumbass,” Bucky tells him, and Steve laughs. “Who else would I dedicate it to?”

Steve kisses him on the forehead. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Steve has said that a lot to him lately. It still fills Bucky with something warm and shimmery as amber. He lays his head into the crook of Steve’s neck and reaches clumsily for his hand, squeezing. 

“What if it gets bad reviews?” Bucky asks quietly. His voice is tentative and small, and he worries that speaking the words aloud will cheapen his accomplishment. He is not supposed to care how it gets reviewed, but he cares so much that the thought of his book getting panned makes him feel dizzy, would certainly be enough to bar him from ever attempting anything getting published again. This book, he feels, is something he has to prove. Failure is as good as a confirmation that he is worse than unsuccessful, he is an insult to any real writers. He’s a hooker who used his genuinely talented, genuinely successful boyfriend to try and pretend he is something else, but it didn’t work, and this is the humiliating and public proof of that. Those thoughts rack him some nights. They have gotten louder and crueler the closer he gets to being published. 

An article had come out a few months ago, right after Bucky had signed the publishing deal. It had been a small, sparsely read journal of literary news, and it had announced that Randomhouse had signed him on for three novels. It had identified him as “the longtime boyfriend of visual artist Steve Rogers” and then gone on to say, “Barnes is something of a public figure for his involvement as the plaintiff in the 2013 case against Alexander Pierce, and has been an advocate for rape victims and sex workers.”

“What the fuck,” Bucky had said, more bewildered by the piece than anything. “I’m not an advocate.” He is still intensely private and does not ever picture that changing. The only other personal essay he has published had been in Modern Love, almost a fluff piece about him and Steve, a feel-good story about childhood best friends turned high school sweethearts turned involuntary exes turned wealthy gay couple living in a Park Slope brownstone. He had happily glossed over the traumatic parts of their relationship; that had not been the point of the column, and if it had Bucky would not have accepted it at all. He was rattled by the description of himself; he was pissed off. He hates being identified in conjunction with Alexander and he hates more that he knows that he will continue to be for the rest of his life.

Steve, standing behind him reading it, had kissed him on the back of the head. “They just meant you’ve, you know. Written about it in ways that have been meaningful and helpful to people.” But Bucky hadn’t wanted that label, that responsibility. He does not trust himself to represent rape victims; he doesn’t even trust himself to represent himself on the day to day.

So he is braced, again, for the slog of articles like that that may or may not be coming. He tries very hard to avoid googling himself, and for the most part, it hasn’t been a problem. It has been long enough that most people have forgotten the faces and names associated with the trial, and when they are approached, it is because someone wanted to tell Steve they were a fan. A few months back, Loki Odinson had called them to inform them that, despite their generosity with letting him potentially adapt their life, unfortunately that wouldn’t be possible right now, he was working on a different gay biopic that he believed would be more successful and he just didn’t want that to be his brand, sorry, did they want him to hand over the rights back to them in case Bucky ever thought about writing a memoir and then maybe they could talk again? (Steve and Bucky had gone out to dinner and purchased a bottle of champagne that night). The relative privacy of their lives is refreshing.

Steve says, “Buck, you won’t.”

Bucky says, “No, I know—I know you think it won’t, or whatever. But, um. Will you still, like, love me if it gets panned?” Steve looks bewildered, and Bucky pedals, “I mean, I know you love me, obviously. But, like, I don’t want this to become some embarrassing thing for you, if it does badly.”

“Bucky,” Steve says quietly, “you could never embarrass me. Baby, I’m—I’m so _proud_ of you. And even if it doesn’t get good reviews—which is not gonna happen—that would never make me less proud of you.”

Bucky lays his head against Steve’s shoulder, sheepish. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

***

Steve wakes first the day of the first reviews, a little knot of trepidation and tenacity in his chest. He slips downstairs, makes coffee, googles Bucky’s name, and when the coffee has finished and he has read through three articles, he all but bounds upstairs.

Bucky is still asleep. Steve smiles at the view, Bucky, one arm over Penny, who’s flopped out beside him happily. Carefully, Steve eases onto his side of the bed, wraps his arms around Bucky, and kisses his cheek.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Steve says. Bucky groans, untangling himself from Penny to turn and bury his face in Steve’s shirt.

“Time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Gross, why would you wake me up?”

“‘Cause you should see something.” Bucky lifts his head, eyes bleary, and watches Steve. Grinning, Steve holds his phone out.

“Hang on…” Bucky maneuvers himself into sitting up, pats Penny once on the head, and reaches off to the side table for glasses that he very recently admitted he needed. “Mkay.” 

_Review: Winters by Bucky Barnes_

“ _Fuck,_ Steve,” Bucky says, jerking his head up, suddenly wide awake. “How are you gonna spring this on me first thing?”

“Just read it,” Steve says, grinning, “C’mon. Please.” Bucky gives him a hard, anxious look. “Actually, let me read it. I’ll crush it.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, a little quiver to his voice. “Blow me away. Leave out any parts that say bad stuff, please.”

“Won’t be a problem. Alright.” Steve winks, clears his throat, and starts.

_Winters, the new, debut novel from Bucky Barnes, orbits primarily around the idea of conscious love. Towards the last third of the book, one of the two main characters notes—_

“God, don’t,” Bucky says, wincing. “I hate hearing my own stuff.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine. It’s that one that I told you was brilliant about love having to always be on purpose, the garden metaphor.” Bucky flushes, but nods for him to go on. 

_This is an impressive idea to tackle in a four hundred page novel without falling prey to cliches and long winded and unrealistic idealizations about love. It is even more impressive coming from a twenty-four year old. Barnes, who has had stories published in The Atlantic, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, and several other publications, writes with a light-handed, understated ease that is supremely rare for any writer of his age, and for many older writers. The novel, which spans several decades and multiple perspectives, an ambitious choice that pays off well, is a love story, but moreso, is a gifted meditation on what it means to owe one another and owe ourselves. As a romance novel, Winters is rather untraditional, and it accomplishes all of the benefits of literary love stories while falling prey to almost none of the negatives. With such a premise, it is admittedly difficult not to begin to search for one’s own interpretation of the author’s writing as a reflection on his personal life._

“Oh, my god—”

“No, I promise it’s not bad.”

_With impressive range, Barnes details the “frantic and iridescent”_ —Bucky flushes, and Steve beams at him— _rush of first love, a first quarter of the story that is written with compassion and depth that is rare for stories about high school romance. The story’s primary relationship is explored with profound intelligence for a romance novel, especially a debut romance novel by a twenty-five year old. As with all writing by authors who, for any reason, have had their personal lives publicized, it is easy to read scanning for references to that and then congratulating one’s self for breaking the psychology. Barnes does not give the reader that out. The book’s cover, a painting of a pivotal location in the novel’s plot, was painted by visual artist Steve Rogers, Barnes’ long term partner, childhood friend, and high school sweetheart whose history, at first glance, seems to mirror what the book’s main characters' arcs are going to be. From Barnes’ 2014 personal essay on his trauma and its subsequent infamous court case, I have no doubt that if he wanted to write a dark and insightful novel on more explicit trauma, even sexual abuse, he could, and perhaps he will in the future. But Winters is a confident and stark first novel to prove that Barnes’ undeniable talent goes far beyond sticking to his experiences._

Steve finishes and grins at Bucky. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are big but he’s grinning despite himself, shoulders a little taut in disbelief.

“Wow,” he says, “that’s a good review.”

Steve laughs. “Hard to imagine a better review.”

Bucky, giddily, presses his hands over his face and laughs. “Holy shit.” He sounds so happy. He surges forward and kisses Steve on the mouth so eagerly that Steve falls backwards and pulls Bucky on top of him, laughing and kissing. 

“I hope that feels really, really good,” Steve says to him, when they pull apart. Bucky, still flushed and beaming, sits up ties his hair back.

“Yeah,” he says, with a hard breath. “Yeah, it does.” Steve sits up with him and kisses the back of his neck. “I could’ve done without the bit about sexual abuse, but. That’s way better than I was expecting.”

Steve kisses his cheek. “It’s exactly what I was expecting. Obviously, everyone knows how talented you are now.”

Flushing, Bucky says, “I mean, it is the _New Yorker_ and they’ve published me, so I doubt they’d say anything—hey!” Steve has tossed a pillow at him.

“If you don’t let yourself be proud of this I will be so annoyed with you.”

“Okay! Fine! I’m really proud of it.” 

Steve can tell by the brightness in his eyes that he really is. He cups Bucky’s face, kisses him clumsily on the forehead, and says, “I’m taking you to dinner tonight. Anywhere where it’ll cost a hundred dollars minimum.”

Giggling, Bucky says, “Shouldn’t you save that for tomorrow, the actual release date.”

“Good thing” —Steve stands, re-fluffs the pillow with a dramatic flourish, and bends down to kiss Bucky one more time— “that we are very rich, and I can take you to dinner as many nights in a row as you deserve.” 

But Bucky is still an anxious wreck that day. “Don’t let me keep looking at my phone,” he tells Steve. “Okay?”

“Smart,” Steve says, “good to not let all the praise get to your head.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, me too.” But he indulges Bucky, and when he taps his screen Steve brushes his foot into his calf to remind him not to.

It’s an endless day, a chain of useless distractions that leaves Bucky restless and anxious. He allows himself a glance at his emails and texts every three hours. By noon, Hope has texted him a few links, the article Steve read and a couple of others with the message _!!!!!!!!! Do something to celebrate tonight_. He reads them fast and hungrily, like if he does not devour the compliments they won’t exist anymore. They are all good, and that astonishes him so much that he has to shake his head a few times to remember that he is whole and present and not dreaming it. The worst are a couple of sentences tucked into otherwise generous reviews calling it too long and full of excessive description at times, one person saying that he “fell prey to the common over-writing of first time novelists at moments” but even that isn’t enough to shake him.

Bucky does not brag, has not ever in his life felt confident enough to do so. But, reasoning to himself that he has earned the ability to share this accomplishment, he texts the best review, the one that Steve read, to Wanda and Scott and Natasha. T’Challa, with such generosity that it almost brings Bucky to tears, tweets a link to the same article and adds _Love it when reviewers get it right. Everyone read my friend and student’s book, out tomorrow. You won’t be disappointed._ An enormous delivery of flowers from Carol and Maria. Bucky is so careful and conscious of the people he lets in close to him that he is not surprised by their kindness, but it still overwhelms him after all this time, like slipping into a pleasant dream.

But no one dotes on him like Steve. The next morning, the real release date, they walk along seventh avenue to breakfast. Some warmth has broken through the cold that everyone assumed would not thaw until spring, and it feels good to walk out under pale winter sun in only a fleece, tucked under Steve’s arm, a solid and shimmery weight between his ribs. The thought that he is putting something vulnerable and important to him out into the world that anyone could pick up for any infinite number of reasons and read it with flippancy makes him feel almost dizzy, even though he has been preparing for it for six months. It is that strange anticipatory anxiety and hope, like the swoop before opening an acceptance letter or the moment before telling someone your feelings. They eat at their usual diner, holding hands across the table, and when the waitress who likes them because of Penny and because they always tip her well asks how they are, Steve says, “Bucky had a book published today.”

“ _Steve_.” He blushes, and can’t tell if the smile she gives him is genuine or an indulgent customer service grimace.

“Oh, my god! I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Oh, he’s so good.”

“Oh, my god, Steve let her do her job. I am so sorry.”

She laughs. “No, that’s seriously cool!” She sweeps their menus up for them and says, “That’s like, an actually interesting update. I ask everyone that but usually they start telling me about their kitchen renovation.” 

After they have eaten and the bill has been paid, Steve, with a feigned air of spontaneity, says, “Let’s go to Barnes and Noble.”

Bucky considers arguing, mostly because of the smugness of Steve’s voice, but he had wanted to do that too, just for the proof that he has made it this far. He rolls his eyes and, laughing, lets Steve kiss him on the cheek and pull him down seventh avenue. It is not a far walk and it is quiet at eleven on a weekday, but the thrill is the same when they arrive and make their way to the new releases table and Bucky sees it in all its glossy hardcover glory, thick enough that only a few of them are stacked together, something Hope had told him might deter spur-of-the-moment purchases but still hadn’t asked him to cut anymore. Bucky touches it very carefully, almost a caress, and then becomes conscious of how bizarre that looks, but no one is watching him except Steve. 

And Steve is watching him. Every time Steve looks at him, it is with love, but there is such proud adoration on his face that Bucky has to turn away for a moment.

“Pretty cool cover,” he finally says.

Steve snorts. “Yeah, I heard the guy who did it agreed ‘cause he’s in love with the writer.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, “sounds like he should get a life.” They smirk at each other. Then Steve kisses him on the temple.

“I am so, so proud of you.” Pleasantly embarrassed, Bucky shies into Steve’s shoulder, blushing. “You are a very amazing person.”

Bucky kisses him lightly on the shoulder. He traces his name, absently. He had thought Hope might tell him to use James, but she hadn’t, and he is very grateful for that.

“Hey,” Steve says to him. Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve reaches into his pocket, fumbles through lint and coins and receipts, and retrieves a pen. “Sign it.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“‘Cause that’s… against the rules.”

Steve snorts. “It is not. It’s your book.”

“Yeah, but…” Bucky looks around weakly. “What if someone sees?”

“Then you tell them you wrote it. C’mon.”

Buckly, exasperated, takes the pen from Steve and uncaps it. He glances back with the anxiety of a child stealing money from their parents wallet, then opens the front cover and writes his name fast, in loopy cursive, laughing despite himself when he realizes Steve is filming.

“If you put that on Instagram I’ll kill you.”

Steve fake-pouts. “You haven’t even heard my caption.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’m thinking ‘They call it _Barnes_ and Noble for a reason.”

Bucky bites his lip against laughter. “That’s absolutely awful. I might have to break up with you for it.” But he tucks himself back into Steve’s side and kisses him on the chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cafelesbian on tumblr :) thank u henry as always, everyone stay safe and happy


	3. three

That day is lazy and happy. Light, cold rain drives them inside, where they cozy up in the kitchen and bake muffins, the air turning sweet, Christmas music playing while they lean over the counter together and go over the list of gifts for their friends. Every few minutes Bucky checks his texts, more for the confirmation that there has not been anything catastrophic said, narrowly restraining from searching his name on Twitter. Sun breaks through the rain later, and they take Penny for a walk through damp grass, letting her off leash so she can lope in circles, kicking up mud, and return to them with a wet stick. 

They have dinner plans that night, a reservation that Steve at a nice restaurant close to Brooklyn Bridge Park, so Bucky wipes Penny’s paws off and goes to take a shower. Steve, glowing with pride, rereads a few reviews until Bucky comes out and he can slip in to rinse off.

Just before they leave, Bucky is putting his hair up in the bedroom mirror when Steve approaches him from behind, kissing his neck, his skin still warm from the shower. Bucky smiles and brushes against his cheek like a cat looking for attention, happy.

“You look nice,” Steve tells him. Bucky is wearing a very nice button down, dark blue with pale pink and gold and green flowers. “Very writerly.”

Bucky laughs. “Thanks. You look very handsome, too.” He kisses Steve’s cheek and extracts himself so he can finish tying his hair.

“Buck?”

“Hm?”

“Did you actually not want me to post that video?”

Satisfied with his bun, Bucky turns to him and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, my god. Let me see it.” Steve holds it out. They have an agreement that was never consciously made that Steve will consult Bucky before putting photos of him out to his two hundred thousand followers. He doesn’t always like very clear shots of his face out there for anyone.

“You look cute,” Steve tells him. The video is short, and Bucky is mostly turned away, so he shrugs and nods.

“Did you actually put that stupid caption?”

Smirking, Steve hands the phone back to Bucky.

_my favorite writer put out a book today. I am very biased but it is objectively incredible. you should all buy it. If you go to this BARNES and noble maybe you can get the one that i peer pressured him into signing._

“Steve,” Bucky says, “you’re gonna make me cry.”

Steve kisses his forehead. “Don’t cry. We gotta go out now.”

Bucky presses his face into Steve’s shoulder for a moment and then nods.

“Hey,” Steve says, as Bucky stands again. “I should let you know we aren’t actually going to dinner.”

“Um, what?”

Steve smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, uh. This is a surprise party for you.” Bucky blinks, bewildered. “Or, I guess not a surprise anymore, but pretend it is.”

“Are you joking?” The almost-apologetic smile on Steve’s face tells Bucky he is not. “Oh, god.”

“Is it really that bad?” Steve is genuinely concerned. He had been pretty confident, while planning this with Wanda, that Bucky wasn’t going to mind as long as it wasn’t truly a surprise, but he is seized by sudden anxiety that a room of people he knows congratulating him might genuinely be something Bucky hates.

He gives Steve a weary look. “How many people?”

“I promise I’m not throwing you a blowout or anything. I just wanted you to feel like this is a celebration.” Steve, endearingly, looks sheepish and worried. “Probably like, twenty-five. It’s all our friends. And, uh, Hope and Okoye.”

“Oh, my god.” Bucky shakes his head in performative exasperation, but the idea of this doesn’t elicit dread it once would. There is a usual, resistant pull in his body to the thought of pride in himself, especially that pride being thrust at others, but he breathes and swallows it down and with some effort, he doesn’t mind at all.

“Bucky?” Steve says. “Is this okay? If it’s not—”

Bucky shakes his head profusely. “No, it’s good. It is. I don’t mind, I like it.” Steve’s face softens with relief. “But no big speeches or anything.”

“I figured,” Steve replies, a new ease to him now that he knows he has not ruined Bucky’s night. “I promise it’s very small and tasteful.”

Bucky stands, shrugging his coat on, leaning easily into the arm Steve puts around his waist. “I believe you.” He kisses Steve on the cheek, the warmth lingering against Steve’s skin even in the cold December air. “Thanks for not really making it a surprise, though.”

“Give me some credit,” Steve says. Bucky smiles again. “We should get a car there.”

The party is in a little restaurant in DUMBO that Steve and Bucky had had dinner at a few months ago. It was warm then, and the back area was sunlit and lush with hibiscuses and daisies and an outdoor bar serving fruity drinks. Right now, the whole place sparkles with Christmas lights and mistletoe and the flush of a fireplace. Bucky hangs onto Steve’s side as they push open the door, a little anxious when the swell of _congratulations_ is directed to him, but mostly okay. He laughs and grins and focuses on Steve, solid and comforting next to him, pressing a reassuring kiss to his hair when the shout has died down, signaling the worst is over. 

Bucky hugs Scott first, because he is the closest and because Bucky is glad to see him. He is a little overwhelmed by the number of people here for him, slightly daunted by the greetings and thanks he is going to have to give, but there is no one here he dislikes or who expects anything from him that he can’t offer them and it makes him happy, flitting around between his friends, getting hugged by Natasha and Peggy and Wanda and Sam and Maria and Carol and T’Challa, everyone congratulating him with what really seems to be genuinity. Somewhere in the crowd, Bucky loses Steve, and after making the rounds, Bucky ends up beside Scott again, non-alcoholic apple cider in hand while Scott drinks an orange winter cocktail, throwing an arm over his shoulders when Bucky gets close. “Congrats, kiddo,” he says quietly. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m twenty-five,” Bucky replies. He has had some champagne and feels pleasant and giggly.

“You’re twenty-four, and you’re still a kid.” Scott squeezes his shoulder, and Bucky laughs, bumping vaguely against Scott’s chin. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” Bucky says, and means it. 

“I brought you something,” Scott tells him, and hands him an envelope. Before Bucky can argue, Scott says, “Yeah, yeah, it’s not money. I know you don’t need it and anyway, you’d spend it on an American Girl Doll for my kid or something.”

“Where’s Cassie tonight?” Bucky asks him.

“At her mom’s. She would’ve cried all night if she knew I was seeing you and she couldn’t come.” Scott and Maggie split up a little over a year ago. They are still close friends, no ugly legal battles or custody wars, apartments close to each other so they can both be with their daughter. 

“You should’ve brought her!” As he’s talking, Bucky unfolds the envelope. An ugly hot pink Hallmark card that says, _The Lord has smiled on you—Congratulations_. 

Bucky snorts. “Good one.”

Grinning, Scott replies, “Maggie wasn’t amused. I thought you’d appreciate it, though.”

Inside, a quote from the bible that Bucky ignores. Underneath it, Scott wrote, _This is all happening because you said your prayers, obviously._

 _Seriously Bucky, I am so, so proud of you. When I was your age I was doing literally nothing. Love you so much—Scott._ Beside it, Maggie scribbled a quick congrats and a heart, and Cassie drew something indiscernible that Scott explains is supposed to be Penny.

There is a photo tucked in there too. It is of him and Wanda and Scott, five or six years ago, on the old couch in their old apartment.

“I was cleaning out my desk this week and I found that.” Bucky stares at it. The paper has gone slightly stiff with age, its colors muted. Bucky finds himself appalled at his own appearance, so thin the lines of his body appear warped and incorrect. He is in between the two of them, and they are all laughing at something, but Bucky has a hand over his mouth, self conscious. It makes him sad, it makes him compassionate. 

“God,” he says, “that was a long fucking time ago.”

Scott gives him a small, sad smile. “Look at us all now.”

Bucky, a little choked up, hugs him again. Then, catching her eye, he calls, “Oh! Hope! Thanks for coming!”

She approaches them, her stride still glamorous, made up with dark holiday lipstick and a very expensive looking black pantsuit. “Of course. Tell your boyfriend thanks for inviting me. And by the way, it’s not narcissistic at all.” She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Realizing that Scott is still there, Bucky says, a little breathlessly, “This is Scott, one of my best friends. Scott, this is Hope, my editor.”

While they’re shaking hands, Bucky glances across the room to finally see Steve, standing on the opposite wall with Sam. Steve catches his eye and his face softens into warmth, and Bucky is flooded with the strange sensation of missing him, even fifteen feet of distance too much. Steve glances at Scott and Hope and raises his eyebrows, intrigued. Bucky sips his cider to keep from laughing.

Steve is glad Bucky is standing too far away to hear his current conversation. Sam strides up to him and says, “So have you done it yet?”

Steve gives him a weary look. “You would’ve heard if I had.”

“Oh, I know,” Sam says. “I’m just shaming you.”

Wanda materializes, laying a hand on Sam’s arm and smirking at Steve. “Leave him alone. It’s gotta be done right.”

“Can you guys shut up?” Steve says, with no irritation. “He’s gonna fucking hear you.”

“Do you have it on you?”

“Yeah.”

They are referring to the heavy velvet box in Steve’s inside jacket pocket. He is so aware of it that it may as well carry its own gravitational field. It has been on him since he bought it three weeks ago because he does not trust anywhere he can leave it that Bucky would not stumble into it. Drawers are out of the question because Bucky steals every article of Steve’s clothing. He could tuck it into a box in his studio, but Bucky is in there all the time and sometimes they will paint together in there and Bucky could search in one of said boxes for a brush. So it rotates into whatever Steve is wearing that day, where it makes itself as known as a lit match burning through his pocket and leaves Steve constantly paranoid about Bucky wrapping his arms around him and feeling it there.

“You thinking you might do it tonight?” Wanda asks.

“God, no,” Steve says.

“Thank god, I thought I was gonna have to sit you down and remind you who you’re proposing—Buck!” She flings her arms around his neck, cutting herself off. He hugs her, laughing and oblivious. “Congrats, baby.”

“I can’t believe you organized this,” Bucky says to her. “You look so pretty, by the way.”

Grinning, Wanda says, “No, your boyfriend did the heavy lifting, I just helped with the flowers and picking a venue.”

Steve smiles, watching Bucky. He looks happy in a way Steve has come to understand is him making the conscious choice to believe he deserves to be happy and letting it in even though there is an initial resistance. He looks almost shy, looking around. Steve catches his eye and Bucky tucks himself against Steve's side with a small, relieved sigh that only Steve catches.

“You okay?” Steve asks him, very softly.

“Mhm.” And he is, mostly, but Bucky’s tolerance for crowds and noises drains very fast, and when Steve asks if he wants to get some fresh air, he nods.

They step into the back area. It is technically open, but too cold for anyone else to join, so they stand under bare trees strung with Christmas lights, their breath fogging in the air.

“Was this okay?” Steve asks him.

Bucky squeezes his hand. “Yes! Yes, so good. I just… you know. Needed a second.” Steve nods and pulls him into a hug. They feel very warm against each other. They hold each other and sway in the chill for a minute or two before Bucky pulls back, takes Steve’s hand, and tugs him back inside.

Steve doesn’t know why he is stalling on proposing, exactly. There are a myriad of mostly flimsy reasons that have stopped him.

He bought the ring four weeks ago. He decided on a weeknight that he had an exhibit showing in Williamsburg. It was an auction that he had not wanted to do, but the paychecks were such that Steve had agreed rather than face the grievance Clint would subject him to if he hadn’t. Besides, these events were the ones that let him spend the rest of the year painting personal things that he’d never sell and flying with Bucky to extraordinary places and buying their friends the holiday gifts they deserved and paying for a collective eight therapy sessions a month with extremely pricey doctors, and anyway, it’s never unbearable with Bucky there.

He and Bucky stayed for two hours and then left early. They walked, and Steve was flooded with unspeakable nostalgia. It was an exhibit at this very space that he had been leaving the night he stumbled into Bucy five years earlier. It had been cold like tonight, and right then Bucky was tucked into his side, shivering a bit, and the same desire to wrap him in all the warmth the world had ever conjured up visited Steve, and he wanted to sweep Bucky somewhere comfortable and safe, even though where they were was not unsafe. Instead, he said, “That diner’s still open,” and Bucky grinned.

They sat down, suit jackets tossed aside. Bucky looked so lovely, even in the mustardy light of the diner. His hair was a little too bouncy from the cold and his cheeks were pick and around his neck he was wearing a thin gold chain that Steve had bought him a few weeks ago from a flea market in Williamsburg, a pretty wreath of gold dangling from the end of it. He kept turning it over, light glinting over pink nail polish, and Steve thought again how _pretty_ Bucky was, how much strength there was in the delicateness he carried himself with like a defiance of everything that had ever happened to him.

Bucky was making fun of one of the other artists, a famous middle aged French guy whose entire collection consisted of photographs of him and several different women doing something just tame enough to not technically be called pornography because over it, he had painted images of famous historical battles. His description stated that, “Our lovemaking is history making.” When they’d gotten to it, Bucky and Steve had read it and then tried very hard not to dissolve into hysterics. The feeling of being that close to someone, of seeing the quirk of their mouth or the tilt of their head in your peripheral and understanding that they are suppressing the same dangerous laughter that you are. Steve had watched Bucky purse his lips and knit his eyebrows into something resembling thoughtfulness and he himself had had to fake a coughing fit.

So as Bucky, in an impressively good French accent, impersonated the way the artist had talked to Steve and told him, condescendingly, that it was always nice to meet fans and there was no guarantee that he’d make it as an artist but it was good to try, Steve watched him and grinned. Then he thought about how he and Bucky had been doing that for almost two decades now, staring straight ahead, hyper aware of the twitch in one another’s cheek or the slight tension in their shoulders as they tried not to laugh at insufferable teachers and terrible family dinners and asinine sermons in church. He thought about how he would get to do that forever.

And then he was visited by a wave of longing, sudden and unstoppable, to be married to Bucky. Bucky dropped the accent and was just laughing, one hand rubbing Penny under the table, the other reaching for Steve’s, his hand cold. Steve, absently, thumbed over the spot just above the knuckle on his forefinger. _I’m going to do it,_ he thought, and felt a wave of clarity, the untarnished thrill of looking forward to something that could only be a good thing.

They took a car home. Bucky fell asleep on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve texted Sam, _are you around this week to help me with an important outing?_

He glanced at Bucky to make sure he wouldn’t wake and read the messages. He hadn’t stirred. Even so, Steve tilted the screen out of his gaze.

_Sam: What outing?_

_Steve: ring purchasing_

_Sam: oh wow man i’m in a relationship :/_

_Jk holy shit!! Yes!! :D_

_Wanda is next to me and asks if she can come_

Steve grinned, typed, _of course_ and turned his phone off because Bucky had lifted his head and blinked, dazed. “‘S that?” he mumbles.

“Clint,” Steve said, “he was scheduling a meeting this week.”

“Mm,” Bucky answered, and closed his eyes again.

Steve went, two days later, to a ring shop near Fulton Street, telling Bucky what was probably his first lie in several years, that he had a meeting with Clint. Then he met his friends, all grinning annoyingly, in front of the store and entered the dramatic archways into the building. Steve had spent two and a half hours deciding which jewelry store to go to before scheduling an appointment here.

“So,” he said to the woman in charge, “I want to propose to my boyfriend.”

“Congratulations,” she replied, with the practiced smile of a retail worker who knows they are about to get a lot of money off of their customer. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

The ring he had decided on, with a unanimous vote from the group, is an elegant rose gold band with a round diamond. It is nothing too expensive (although, when the saleswoman tells Steve the price, Sam says to Wanda, “Don’t expect that from me,” and she laughs and blushes), at least not in comparison to the flashier rings next to it selling for twenty thousand dollars. Steve had talked to his friends about engravings and decided, eventually not to do anything too complicated or witty or romantic for that. He’d rather wait to spend that money on the wedding bands, to decide with Bucky if and what they should write on the inside of their rings. So he pays for this one and brings it home today, tucked discreetly into a velvet pouch that he sticks in the deepest pocket of his bag and feels through the fabric to be sure he hasn’t lost it in the Christmastime rush of Lower Manhattan.

It is not that he is nervous about Bucky saying no. They live together, their money is together, they are one another’s emergency contacts and beneficiaries of everything if something, god forbid, were to happen to the other (Much to Clint’s annoyance; he has argued with Steve for several years now about the danger of leaving his entire profile of work to his twenty-five year old boyfriend. Steve doesn’t care). They’ve lived together for longer than they have been apart, they have seen each other in every variation of joy and devastation, more than many couples who have been together longer than they’ve been alive have, they’ve been to therapy together, they have suffered with one another enough that it is extremely hard for Steve to see anything that could put enough strain on them to become a relationship-ending disaster. He has total faith in his and Bucky’s ability as a couple.

And they have talked about getting married for longer than most couples even should. Steve thinks often of himself at eighteen, half-proposing to Bucky after the first time they had sex, feeling like the two of them were wrapped in some untouchable and iridescent force that only they had ever discovered. He would have been willing, on Bucky’s eighteenth birthday, to go to a courthouse and marry him in all of his nineteen year old recklessness like characters in a Bruce Springsteen song, would have been drunk on happiness and immune to the rightful skepticism of everyone who had their best interests at heart and everyone who did not. Even today, Steve is confident if he and Bucky had hung on long enough to make that happen, or had moved in together at eighteen and nineteen years old to a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood with failing heating and water services and paint flaking off of the walls and windows that don’t quite open, they would have made it work and, today, would still be renting an overpriced and almost uninhabitable apartment, working at coffee shops and restaurants to pay for groceries. He sometimes even feels a tint of grief for the what-ifs of that life.

But still, they both talk about it as a given. Bucky a few months ago, slightly drunk and sleepy after a night with their friends, head against Steve’s chest in the dark, had murmured, “My ring size is a six, by the way,” and fallen immediately asleep before Steve could follow up with a question. They have talked abstractly about seasons for a wedding, they have talked about kids together, they have talked about their lives fifty years from now with the correct assumption that they will still be together. It is not that he’s afraid of Bucky saying no. He just wants it to be done right.

He keeps going over it internally, how he will do it. He thinks he has thought of everything. An expensive restaurant with a gorgeous view and a bouquet of roses and Steve on one knee in a suit. In bed, post-gentle sex while he kisses Bucky’s face and holds him, whispered into his ear. In the park on a picnic blanket, tied cleverly to Penny’s collar or tucked into a tupperware for Bucky to find. He wants to do it right. The other day, he had been coming out of the subway into a rainstorm, on his way home from a meeting, grimacing and bracing himself to get wet, and when he’d ascended up the subway steps and into the rain he had been startled to see Bucky, waiting.

“Oh, good,” Bucky said, and kissed him on the cheek. “I knew you’d forget your umbrella.” And he had lifted it over Steve’s head, the two of them lit in cool blue light through the fabric of it, their heads close.

Steve laughed, incredulous. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Bucky tucked himself into Steve’s side. “It was a one in four chance I guessed the right steps you’d come out of, though.” Bucky looked indescribably lovely, cheeks flushed, hair coming loose out of a bun, a dazzling streak of color against the gray of the afternoon in his yellow sweater, and Steve had almost dropped to his knee and done it then.

Or last weekend, at the animal shelter that they adopted Alpine and Clover at, where they volunteer semi-regularly. He watched Bucky, cradling a blind cat like a baby and talking to a family who would end up adopting her, smiling, all confidence, Bucky who still sometimes got anxious ordering food, so much bravery and gentleness for the animals he was trying to find homes for, and he pressed his palm over the box like he was looking for a pulse.

He is thinking about this when they get home that night. Bucky is washing his face and Steve is in bed, petting Alpine and scrolling through Instagram. Bucky joins him. He turns his light off and lays against Steve’s chest, and Steve moves so thoughtlessly that by the time Bucky is cuddled against him, he has barely registered the change in position. He kisses Bucky on the hair.

“How was it?”

Even in the dark, he knows Bucky is smiling. “Hm, good. That hummus was awesome.” Steve snorts. “I had fun,” Bucky says, craning his neck enough to look at Steve’s face. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and kisses him, chaste and lingering. Bucky tugs a little at Steve’s collar for leverage.

“And thank you for not giving me any kind of dramatic toast,” Bucky adds, between kisses.

“Goddamn it,” Steve says, “I knew I forgot something.”

Bucky giggles again, then kisses him, slow and syrupy, hand braced lightly on Steve’s face. “Thank you,” Bucky says softly.

“You already thanked me.”

“I know. I just meant for everything.” He sighs, lays his head onto Steve’s shoulder, and smooths a hand uselessly over the comforter. “Today was a really good day. It was so much better than I even hoped for.”

 _Now?_ , Steve thinks to himself, but he doesn’t and he knows that he will not. Tonight is Bucky’s, his pride deserved and warm and too big to be crowded out by something that would be for both of them. So he kisses Bucky on each of his eyelids, smiling when it makes him laugh, and holds him against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cafelesbian on tumblr


	4. four

The next few days come in a whirl of anxious, happy noise. Bucky keeps waiting for the revelation of a joke that he is not in on, but people and critics are largely and extraordinarily generous, and it makes him feel golden. A few days after it is released, he’s in the kitchen, assembling a smoothie, when Okoye calls him to tell him that she’s got about half a dozen offers for appearances and book signings.

“Oh,” Bucky says, bewildered. “Um. Oh. Do you think I should?”

“You know you’re the only person I represent who isn’t begging me to set up these appearances,” she tells him, and Bucky laughs weakly. “I think it’s always good, yes. But you don’t have to.”

“I just… I’m not a good speaker.”

“Well, that’s not true. But I won’t force you to.” Even the slight exasperation in her voice doesn’t upset him. “But I do think you should do some kind of interview. There are a couple of magazines that want you.”

“Really?”

“Bucky, for you as much as me, believe me. Every writer I’ve ever met is obsessed with talking about their work, and as much as you’re one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met, I can’t believe you’re the exception.”

Bucky really laughs at that. “Fine,” he says, “you can pick one person and set up an interview for me. Whatever publication you think is best.”

“Yeah, alright. I’m gonna call you later.”

“Wait, Okoye?”

“Yes?”

“Could, uh, could you, um. Make it clear that personal stuff is off limits?”

Okoye is always warm, but there’s a rare softness to her voice when she says, “Alright. No problem.”

“Thanks.”

It is a very strange thing, knowing that everyone of any importance in his life will very quickly become familiar with the worst things that ever happened to Bucky. The circle of people he lets close to him is small and tight and difficult to permeate because of that. It is exhausting, having to witness people understand those violences. He has been lucky in his professional life thus far, that T’Challa and Hope and Okoye are so accommodating to that, but with all of them, he has seen the flash of intrigued pity in their eyes when they’ve realized who he is. Or maybe he’s just fucking paranoid. After all, he trusts all of them as much as any older figure in his life, save for Scott and Carol and Maria.

But he’s seen it everywhere. Back when he took classes and started to make casual friendships, he would always know right away when someone had googled him or remembered him or stumbled upon something linking him to the things he went through. He knows the look so well by now, the aggressive sympathy and morbid curiosity, the belief that giving him a soft look will make him start weeping into their shoulder about being raped while he was a hooker. Everyone wants to get as close to trauma as they can without actually having to touch it.

It’s a singularly isolating feeling. Bucky isn’t lonely anymore. The people he’s let into his life have brought him kindness and goodness that he could spend the rest of his life trying to return and still never deserve. But he has cocooned himself in with people he trusts, and it is an enormous emotional labor to lay himself out for new people.

And he feels, finally, like some of the unbearable glare of being known publicly is finally easing off. It has been a long time since anyone has approached him and Steve about their roles in the trial or tried to run articles about them in a tabloid. The worst Bucky gets these days is at parties, when well-meaning and oblivious people who know Steve tangentially will ask Bucky what he thinks about whoever is latest in the new slew of celebrities and millionaires to be exposed as sexual predators (Steve has started glaring and saying, “Why are you asking him that?”). He knows he’s been mentioned a few times in articles as an example of an early #MeToo survivor, but he has not read them. He does not want to be associated with Alexander now or ever.

Since Rumlow’s death and Pierce’s apparent acceptance of a life sentence, the threats have been sparse. There was only one thing, an apparent one-off, that shook them.

It was nine months ago, and Bucky and Steve had been in Boston for a weekend, visiting Nat at law school. It was early; they were still in their hotel room, dressing and looking at Google maps to try to find a breakfast place. Bucky had been clipping Penny’s vest on her when his phone pinged with an email and he picked it up.

The address was a string of letters and numbers, an amateur’s attempt at being indiscernible. There was a photo attached, and the message, in true crime-boss movie wannabe fashion, said, _Bring 50k to the corner of W28th and 10th tomorrow of this goes to your boyfriend and everyone in your life._

The photo was exactly what was to be expected. Later, Carol would date it to 2009, meaning Bucky was seventeen when it was taken. He doesn’t remember it. He has no idea who it could have been. He wasn’t even certain the photo was him, it was grainy and unfocused enough, and he was on his stomach with his face turned away, but he imagines the number of slutty photographs taken of skinny one-armed guys can’t be big enough for it not to be him. When he opened it, he startled up so badly that his vision shuddered black and then Steve was next to him, hand on his back, going, _Buck, baby, what is it_ , and Bucky remembers clinging to the phone.

He doesn’t really remember what he said, only that he begged Steve not to open the photograph and Steve hadn’t. He let Steve read the threat, his whole body trembling, and then he let Steve hold him while he trembled and gasped.

Nothing ever came of it. They called Carol, who went to the location that next day, but no one showed. The photo was never sent to anyone else. They would have probably had no way to do that, Carol said. The threat was empty from the beginning, someone desperate who hadn’t thought the plan through for more than ten seconds looking to score cash. She asked Bucky, wincing, if he could think of anyone like that, and he said yes, everyone he’d ever slept with was low enough to do that, but he had no names or locations anymore.

Bucky didn’t know why it happened then. There were a lot of possibilities. He’d just had a short piece published, the Modern Love column, and his email had been linked. A few days before, a picture of him and Steve had appeared by accident in several entertainment magazines because they had been having lunch with Thor and Jane when paparazzi had shown up. Regardless, the guy had never gotten in contact again, and even though it had been terrifying, it had ended there. Bucky still shudders when he thinks about it. A little after, when the initial horror had faded into dull misery, he had felt such grief for his past self. That should never have happened to any seventeen year old, he thought, who could do that.

There was a different email more recently too, just much less vicious. It was about two months ago, from an investigative journalist at the New York Times. Bucky knew when he saw her name what it was going to be about; she was one of the rare reporters to gain celebrity-status: she had been responsible for a handful of breaking stories about abuse allegations, up there with Farrow and Twohey and Cantor. Christine Everheart had explained, very tactfully, that she was working on a long story about abuse in the corporate world, and she wondered if he’d be able to speak with her; other victims of Alexander Pierce had come forward, but they were mostly anonymous, still bound by NDAs, and she wondered if he had anything to say.

It wasn’t the first email like that and it wasn’t the first he’d heard of other victims, and his answer to her was the same: _No thank you, I don’t really like to speak publicly about that, good luck._ She’d thanked him and given her contact information if he changed his mind, and he has not heard from her again. Nor has he seen any such article. 

No one talks about how hard it is to get used to happiness and safety. When that photo had come, everything in Bucky had coiled and prepared for what was inevitably going to happen, for the next slew of violence and pain and threats, and when it hadn’t come, it had felt wrong. Now, Bucky no longer thinks that when he is happy for any extended time, the universe has to rush to correct itself. But it has taken him four years and tens of thousands of dollars of therapy to get to that point. Happiness, for people who have really suffered, is never intuitive. It is so much easier to bend to cruelty and the subsequent thought that that is what he deserves than to arch away from that belief. There is such exhaustive effort required in believing happiness can be for you. There is even effort in getting to the point of wanting to try.

Bucky swallows and smooths his hair back. Clover, beside him, howls for a treat, and Bucky pets her tiny head with one finger and then relents with a few Temptations.

Steve comes in a few minutes later, clammy from a long run. “Hey, baby,” Bucky says, and smiles when Steve kisses the back of Bucky’s head. “Smoothie?”

“I love you,” Steve says, accepting the glass from Bucky. “You alright?”

“Mhm.” Bucky tells him what Okoye said, then blushes when Steve grins and says, “I can’t believe I have a celebrity boyfriend now.”

“Ha.”

“Seriously.” He sets his empty glass aside and kisses Bucky on the nose. “That’s awesome, baby. I’m proud of you.”

So Bucky meets Helen Cho at a cafe in the East Village and spends two hours talking to her. Okoye was right about authors (there is still a little jolt of disbelief when he counts himself in that category) and obsession with talking about their own works. It’s fun, to show off something he made like a prized garden, pointing out little things he is proud of to an audience who wants to hear it. Helen is very sweet. He stutters a few times, talking too fast and finding himself insufferable and slowing back and then reminding himself that she’s here because she wanted to be. 

He tells Jennifer later that it had made him anxious, and it still does to think back on it, and she points out what she has said about him before. Even after all this time and all this healing, he is still sometimes fighting the instinct to make himself small and pliant and invisible. And a few days later when it is published, it is very strange to see himself in print, even after all this time and especially in a new context. He cringes reading his own words: trite, stiff, self absorbed.

“Self absorbed?” Steve says, incredulous, when Bucky vocalizes this self consciousness. “Bucky, you realize that you were getting interviewed about yourself to talk about your experiences, right?”

But it is hard for him to put himself in the center of anything and feel like it does not make him selfish. He agonizes briefly over the idea that he is an attention seeker after all, that he’s exploiting trauma for personal gain, although even he can see how absurd a thought that is. He still struggles with liking himself, though, and believing that other people can like him without some kind of blatant, explicit reason to. So he reads the interview once. It is just that, a transcript, and Bucky is sort of relieved that it’s not some kind of profile where he has to read and analyze descriptions of himself.

He only skims it. It’s too much to really take in his own words, and he ends up busying himself with watering the plants in their living room as Steve reads it slowly, looking up to grin at Bucky. “You’re so dumb,” Steve tells him, tossing a pillow across the room. Bucky catches it and throws it back. “This is great. You’re so smart.”

“Dumb or smart?”

“Dumb when it comes to judging yourself. Smart about literally everything else.”

Bucky snorts. “Stop,” he says, but Steve pulls him in, hands cold under Bucky’s shirt, making him laugh and squirm, until Bucky has settled completely into his lap and sighs.

Okoye texts him, _Great interview, there are more waiting if you want them x_ and Wanda texts him _youre a cutie, i am so proud of you_ , and he feels a bit better. Anyway, he reminds himself, it’s a small interview that will be read by almost no one, literary junkies who read every author interview and his friends.

He is terrified of being hated, is the thing. The way he has been treated lately, praise shining on him, feels terribly precarious. He has spoken to Jennifer about this, about the way good things can still feel in direct opposition to what he deserves, despite all evidence to the contrary. It is amazing how easy it is to slip back into believing he’s bad, like an addict returning to drugs after years of sobriety. Someone on their literary blog, a guy getting a Ph.D. in English with a Norman Mailer quote as his website’s heading, had written a several paragraph long denunciation of the book, calling it, among other things, bland, overrated, pretentious, insufferable, and then concluded it with, “He should probably have stuck to blowjobs—at least then, patrons are spending twenty dollars to want to finish.”

Steve, when Bucky told him, almost in tears, had comforted him by sitting him down and squeezing his shoulders and saying, “Buck, that guy’s a gigantic obviously piece of shit and a fucking idiot. Did you click on his list of favorite books? Kerouac, Salinger, Foster Wallace, and Ayn Rand. I’d have been more concerned if he had liked yours,” and it had made Bucky laugh even in the terrible shame of the moment. But that, Bucky thinks, must be the true reaction, the thing everyone except for men who pride themselves on telling it like it is when they are really just colossal assholes, are thinking. The sense that he has carried since he first started writing again, and especially when he started getting stories published and winning contests, has hardened into a terrible weight between his ribs: that everything he does has to be proof that he is more than all of the names that have been assigned to him, and the slightest suggestion that he is not breaks him open.

But still, there is no crash of reality, no wave of threats or hateful words or scorn,and things stay peaceful.

Christmas is spent quietly. Steve thinks about a holiday proposal, the ring wrapped in a misshapen box to throw Bucky off, or fit over a branch on their tree, but then Sam asks him if he thinks he’s in a Hallmark movie and begrudgingly Steve has to agree, proposing on a holiday cheapens the act of asking Bucky to be with him forever, reduces it to the same value as the sweaters and books and concert tickets that they buy each other. 

They spend the evening, as they usually do, at Maria and Carol’s. Monica shows them a model spaceship she got and Carol and Maria present them with a set of beautiful ceramic vases. They are in the process of another adoption, another baby girl who is due in approximately three months, and Carol has left the department to instead flaunt her Cornell English degree and start a small magazine with a friend. She told them a few months back that the second-hand trauma of the job was just getting to be too much for too little reward, the constant awareness of child predators and their atrocities seeping into her head even and especially when she returned home to her wife and daughter. She does seem better now, lighter. Carol and Steve, and often, Bucky, will practice kickboxing in Steve and Bucky’s basement or in the park when it’s warm enough, and they babysit for Monica a few times a month and Carol and Maria goad them over almost weekly for dinner and general emotional check-ins. 

Right now, they sit around a decadent Christmas table, bowls of beautiful food between them made by all four of them, Monica bouncing in her chair, glowing with the shining joy of a loved child on Christmas. Bucky slips into the bathroom at one point, detaching himself from where he is comfortably leaning into Steve’s side and Steve, glancing back to be sure the coast is clear, says nervously, “I bought a ring a couple weeks ago.”

He watches them look surprised, then delighted. Carol beams at him, and Maria actually lays a hand over her chest in delight. He has been wanting to tell them, as much his surrogate family as Sam and Wanda and Natasha, perhaps for the adult approval and support that his parents left him wanting for, but he does not entertain that thought long enough for it to bother him. He grins at them. Monica looks around at the adults, annoyed at not understanding.

“Steve!” Carol says, so warmly. “That’s so, so great. Congratulations.”

“He hasn’t said yes yet,” Steve answers, but smiles down. The ring, currently, is on the inside pocket of the jacket he wore over here, at this point out of a compulsive need to keep it with him rather than because he thought he’d be using it tonight. 

Monica, catching on, says, “You’re asking Bucky to marry you?” Her moms shush her and look back towards the bathroom. Steve laughs.

“I am! But don’t tell him, I want it to be a surprise.”

“I pinky-swear,” she says solemnly, and holds out her little hand. 

Steve winks at her and locks pinkies for a moment across a nearly-empty pan of sweet potatoes. “You know if he does say yes, we’ll probably need some flower girls. Tell me if you think of anyone.” And then Bucky returns, right at Steve’s side, still smelling faintly like the apple pie he was cooking earlier, preening when Steve puts his arm back over his shoulders and kisses the side of his head, and Carol scoops up Monica to go retrieve more presents to show off before she blurts anything out.

They leave later that evening, warm, familial kisses on the cheek, tupperwares of leftovers that Steve and Bucky know better than to refuse. The streets are quiet while they drive home, hands held between the seats. Steve kisses Bucky’s knuckles at red lights and Bucky smiles at him, his face soft and pretty in the misty winter streetlamp light, tenderness filling the air. There is no need to say, _that was a nice night_ because they both know it already, a beautiful night out of many beautiful nights in a life that they are awed by. They fall asleep holding one another, such peace and gentleness filling the room.

Scott comes by the next night to exchange presents and make them all eggnog. It’s just the three of them, because Wanda went skiing with Sam and his family for the week. It is pleasant to sit in their living room, blankets spilling over their legs, catching up for what feels like the first time in ages. Bucky leans against Steve, fitted happily between his legs, full and content.

“I’m kinda seeing someone,” Scott tells them, when dusk has clotted the sky and they have all settled, lethargic from leftover syrupy holiday deserts and the disorientation of those days between Christmas and New Year’s. 

“Oh?” Bucky, grinning, extends his leg to kick Scott lightly in the shin. “That’s awesome, Scott. What’s her deal?”

Scott looks vaguely uncomfortable. Bucky, for a moment, worries that he is going to tell him he’s back with Maggie, an ill-informed but unsurprising outcome. Instead, Scott clears his throat and says, “Uh, Hope? VanDyne?”

Steve chokes on his eggnog. Scott grimaces, sheepish.

“What?” Bucky says, too startled by this to process. “No, you’re not.”

“I swear to god I didn’t think it would—”

“You’re sleeping with my _publisher_? Scott, out of all the women in New York you pick the one who’s in charge of my career.” Bucky is not angry, not genuinely. But he reasons that Scott deserves to squirm a little for this, even as he is laughing, incredulous, at this new information. He straightens up out of Steve’s arms. “Oh, my god. You realize this means you have to marry her, right?”

Scott, to his credit, accepts Bucky slagging him for a bit. Steve has taken a neutral, amused stance during this exchange, and when he pipes in with, “Congrats, Scott,” Bucky glares at him.

“Is this not a conflict of interest for her?” Bucky sputters.

“I don’t think it’s illegal to date your client’s friends, kiddo,” Scott says weakly.

Bucky, with incredible exasperation, pinches the bridge of his nose. Steve pulls him in, still laughing, and kisses him clumsily on the cheek to make him groan. When Bucky raises his eyebrows at Scott, he is faintly red in the face, grinning sheepishly.

“I think Hope’s awesome,” he says unhelpfully.

“I know,” Bucky responds, mock annoyed. “Jesus Christ. I hate you.”

That evening he texts Wanda, _Scott and my publisher are fucking_ and joins Steve in the kitchen. When he sees Bucky, Steve smiles warmly and wraps him in his arms, kissing the top of his head. Bucky sighs happily.

“You smell good,” Steve tells him.

“Thanks. New shampoo.”

“Very nice.” 

Bucky untangles himself enough from Steve to look up at his face. “So what do you think?” he asks Steve. “Scott and Hope.” He has been dying to hear Steve’s thoughts.

Steve snorts. “I don’t know. They both scare me a little, so maybe.”

“There is no way Scott scares you.”

“Hey, you weren’t there when he gave me the ‘what are your intentions with Bucky’ talk.” Bucky snorts. “Besides, you know Hope a lot better than me. What do you think?”

Bucky considers this. “I don’t know. She’s very Type A and he’s, you know, not. And I literally never gave this a second of consideration until today. And I wish Scott would date someone who doesn’t control my career. But if they end up, like, getting married I’ll be delighted. But if Scott makes her hate him, I’m gonna kill him.”

Steve is laughing at him. “If they do get serious, that’ll be two for two on setting up successful relationships.”

“I would never have set that up in a million years,” Bucky answers. “God, this is weird. I don’t think I hate it, but it’s weird.” He pushes lightly away from Steve to stop the kettle and pours each of them their tea, leaves it to cool for a moment. 

“Think we’re gonna go on double dates with them?” Steve teases. Bucky scowls at him. “C’mere.” Steve holds a hand out. Ignoring him, Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and is held by him. Steve kisses his temple, and they fall into a rhythm that is mostly an almost imperceptible shift of their weight that can barely pass for dancing.

Steve wants to ask him now. The words gather in his throat, waiting, and he very nearly says them, and the only thing that stops him is the romantic mundanity of the moment, no different from any other night they have spend slow dancing in empty light in their kitchen, and that might not matter or it might be the point, because marriage, Steve supposes, is just asking someone to share lovely mundanities for the rest of their life, but he has waited long enough that there should be something special about it, something to transition the shift, however performative, from partners to husbands.

“What?” Bucky says softly, startling Steve.

“Hm?”

“You’re thinking about something. I can tell.”

“Just that I wanna do this.” He kisses Bucky lightly, thrilled by the comfortable way Bucky’s arms tighten around his shoulders. Bucky kisses him back for some time, pearl moonlight falling over them through the back windows, until Steve pulls apart, kisses his forehead, and says, “Wanna take this up to bed?”

Bucky hesitates. “Um,” he says nervously. “I don’t really—I mean, we can, I just, it’s been a busy day and I’m a little tired—”

“Hey,” Steve says, and moves his hands, gently, to Bucky’s face. “You don’t need to give a reason. And we definitely, definitely won’t if you don’t feel like it.” The relief that comes over Bucky’s face is still enough to break Steve’s heart. He kisses the top of Bucky’s head. He himself is relieved when Bucky braces a hand lightly on the back of his neck and kisses him, a quiet, unnecessary thank you. “I love you,” Steve tells him.

“I love you, too.” Apparently settled, Bucky nestles his head into the crook of Steve’s neck and sighs happily.

“Hey, you wanna go away this weekend?”

“Hm, sure. Where’d you have in mind?”

“I was actually thinking Montauk.”

Bucky laughs. “It’s December.”

“Yeah, but, you know. It’s always pretty out there. And we can stay at that resort with the hot tubs, and I heard you can see seals in the winter.”

Bucky perks up at that. “Yeah?” Steve kisses his forehead, so endeared he could almost weep. “Yeah, alright. It’s always nice out there.”

They go that weekend, checking into the hotel and grinning at each other in their shared sheepishness at their wealth, all of this luxury and pleasure that they can purchase without having to hesitate. They stay at one of the pretty resorts on the water where there are very few other guests at this time of year. Really, they have no reason to be here. In the past, it had been to escape New York, its noise and brashness replaced with a quieter place where the sky opened up for stars and they never had to worry about being harassed, but it has not been that in a long time. Instead, they luxuriate in their incredible fortune. There is a hot tub on the balcony where they sit together on their first night, frost glittering over the surfaces around them, the ocean dark as ink. Since it’s only them, Bucky takes his shirt off and leans happily against Steve, enjoying being somewhere other than the city.

It has been longer than usual since they’ve gone away like this. It is really the first time that their lives and work have restricted them to the city, a limitation that is more than acceptable, but back a year or so ago when Bucky had been writing with no intention of publishing and Steve had enormous stretches of time between deadlines for art or exhibition appearances to make, they could find an Airbnb every other week, a brightly painted house with a big porch by a beach or a warm cabin upstate with a fireplace surrounded by snow, and spend a few days away. It had helped them for a long time, being able to do that. But neither of them have felt the frantic closing in of the city in a long time, its buildings and their contents threatening, blocking out the sky. This is not that either. A young, happy couple on a weekend trip, a brief intermission from the pleasant business of their professional lives, nothing more to it than that. Bucky falls asleep that night thinking about that, his head on Steve’s chest, sated.

They do, in fact, go see seals the next day. An early walk along the beach, Steve holding a paper map like it’s the 1940s, Bucky says, until Steve scowls at him and tells him their phones won’t give them the specific seal trail. It’s cold and peaceful, their hands clasped the healing sounds of the ocean steady beside them for almost forty minutes, until Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand and points. The seals, as promised, are resting on the beach and a long stretch of rocks, seven or eight of them, bright white and speckled.

“Oh, they’re so _cute_ ,” Bucky coos. Penny, next to them, is tilting her head.

“Pen, that’s what you’d look like with no fur or ears,” Steve tells her. She scuffs one paw in the sand.

They stay for a long time, keeping a safe enough distance. Contentment spills open in Steve, so vivid that he is warmed by it, like being pleasantly wine drunk, as he stands there in the pocket of warmth they have created by holding one another, watching the seals luxuriate, their bodies rippling with the occasional stretch, skin shimmery in the watery winter sun.

“I like that guy.” Bucky points out a chubby seal who has lifted his head and stretched like a cat. “He’s got a weird fin.”

“I like that one.” Steve points to a grey one, rocking on its side like a pendulum, staring down Steve and Bucky and Penny. Bucky giggles. His cheeks are pink and his hair sticks out in the wind and his eyes are bright and watery from the cold. Steve kisses him clumsily on the cheek.

The seals remain for almost two hours and then, in some long-ago decided understanding, make their way into the water, where their speckled heads bob up and down for some time until disappearing.

“Let’s get a seal,” Bucky says to Steve as they walk back to the car. 

“I should tell you, that’s why we came out here, so one could be delivered to our place. Merry Christmas.”

They reach their car, and Steve asks Bucky if he’s hungry. They drive to an expensive cafe downtown and buy coffee and breakfast burritos at four pm, then return to another spot on the beach. Already, the sky is crescendoing into its peak of sunset, golden light making everything more romantic. They sit, lattes nestled upright in the sand, watching the water. It is freezing, but they’re both wrapped in hoodies and a blanket and each other and the chill is pleasant on their face. At the shore, waves crash into infinite glittering crystals, darker and more vivid than the waves seem in the summer. Surfers in colorful wetsuits with impressive perseverance glide in and out of the water.

“I miss our seals,” Bucky announces. He is leaning back between Steve’s legs, throwing a tennis ball for Penny. Above them, the sunset is dazzling, popsicle pink and dotted with buttery clouds.

Steve kisses Bucky’s ear. “Yeah, me too.” It has been such a good day. 

Bucky is perfectly happy. It is extraordinary to have someone who can give you that joy so thoughtlessly, bring happiness rushing forward like a great waterfall, overwhelming and plentiful. Steve kisses Bucky a bit lower on the jaw and makes him giggle.

“We should go on a whale watching trip,” Bucky says. “Like, one of those ones where you can be right next to orcas. That would be awesome.”

“Like Alaska?”

“Probably not this time of year. But maybe summer.” They smile at each other. The casual permanence of their life together never ceases to amaze Bucky.

“Ah, shit,” Steve says suddenly. “Penny’s got something down there.” Bucky groans. Sure enough, by the water, Penny is trotting around with something dark hanging out of her mouth. “Pen! Drop it!” 

She does, sadly. Bucky laughs as Steve disentangles himself from Bucky and stands, heading over to her to inspect it. “Seaweed!” he calls. Penny, undeterred, has now picked up a long and heavy stick that sags down on one side. Steve, exasperated, tugs it from her for a minute or two while Bucky smiles at them.

When Penny gets bored of that and lopes back up to Bucky, Steve hangs back a moment. Bucky snorts as he drags the stick in big letters through the sand, studies it, and then yells, “Hey, you should come see what Penny wrote!”

“I’m too comfy here!”

“I’m telling you your dog knows how to write and you won’t come see?”

Bucky makes a show of rolling his eyes but stands, stretches, and walks down to the water. “You’re not funny,” he says to Steve, who has stood back and is watching him, and then stops in his path and takes in a hard breath.

_MARRY ME, BUCK?_

“Steve,” Bucky says, and finds his voice is high and breathy. He stares for a moment to be sure he has not misread the three words, and when he swings around and Steve is kneeling and holding out a tiny unmistakable box, he covers his face for a moment. “Steve,” he says again, choked and laughing.

“Wait!” Steve says. He is grinning, his face flushed, looking sheepish and almost young. “I made up a whole thing to say, alright?” Bucky laughs, giddy and incredulous, and nods. “Okay. Um. Buck, you know that I love you more than anything in the entire world, and there’s… there’s no real proper way for me to say that in a proposal speech ‘cause the words don’t exist for me to tell you how much I love you. But… but I mean, you are the thing in my life that is so completely connected to happiness and laughter and love and safety for me, and you have been that for almost twenty years for me. And I was thinking about that a few weeks ago when we had that gallery and then went to that diner after, and you were making me laugh so hard even though it had been such an annoying night, and I was thinking about how during annoying things and inconvenient things and even the really hard things, you’ve been making me laugh for almost two decades. And you’re my best friend and my favorite person in the world and no one has ever come close to that position besides you ever in my life, and, um, basically, I think why pretend that will change now?” Bucky laughs again. He isn’t crying, but his throat is thick with emotion, and the comfortable, warm weight in his chest could very well become tears. “So, Bucky Barnes, will you marry me?”

Bucky kisses him, dropping to his knees so he can crash against Steve. Damp sand clings to his jeans but he does not notice anything around him. When he pulls back, laughing, Steve’s eyes are bright and damp and Bucky realizes that tears have finally broken through for him too.

“That a yes?”

Bucky laughs and buries his face in Steve’s neck for a moment. “Yes!” He kisses Steve again, fast and breathless. “Yes, yes, yes. I love you so much.”

Steve, still a little tearful, kisses Bucky’s face. Bucky is laughing giddily, a pleasant tremor to his hands when Steve slips the ring onto his ring finger, his real hand, all the light catching on it, and they kneel there holding each other and laughing in the chill, murmuring, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Bucky is crying now, lightheaded with joy. He breaks away from the kiss to wrap his arms around Steve’s neck and bury his face in Steve’s shoulder. Steve kisses his temple and holds him, and they sway on their knees in the golden air.

“Don’t cry!” Steve laughs, even though he is teary-eyed too. Bucky, muted with emotion, shakes his head.

“Only good crying,” he promises Steve. Steve kisses him again. “Penny, your dads are getting married!” He adds, because she is standing importantly beside them, tail swinging back and forth, wanting a part in the excitement. She kisses his face and Bucky laughs again.

They stand and fall against each other again, kissing, slow and hungry, breaking apart to giggle and kiss each other’s faces. The wind has picked up and tears around them just harsh enough to stop being pleasant, but they are holding onto each other and they don’t care. 

“Took you long enough,” Bucky tells him.

Steve laughs. The adoration in his face is enough to still the waves. “You could’ve asked me!”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to!”

Steve kisses his forehead, his nose, his eyelids. “I bought that ring almost two months ago.”

Bucky, always, is made weak by the feeling of being chosen like this, being claimed with such love. He hugs Steve again, laughing and crying and clinging to him, and Steve hugs him back and lifts him a little off the ground.

“Hey!” someone yells, their voice small and far away. Steve sets him down but does not let go of his waist. A surfer in a purple wetsuit is waving at them. “Did you guys just get engaged?”

“Yeah!” Bucky yells back, giddy, and holds up his hand even though they are too far to make out even their faces.

“Congrats!” she calls back, and there is a faint rise of cheers from her friends, and Bucky looks at Steve laughs again, overwhelmed with the goodness in the world, and then buries his face in Steve’s neck.

They tell their friends that evening, a photo of the two of them, their faces close, Bucky’s hand on his cheek enough so that the ring becomes the centerpiece sent to their group chat with Scott, to Maria and Carol, to their group chat with Sam and Wanda and Nat and Peggy. The photo is so cute that Bucky tells Steve he can post it. He captions it “:).”

“When should we get married?” Bucky asks Steve later, giggly from the glass of champagne he drank in the hotel restaurant. They’re walking back to their room, arms around one another. They have not stopped touching all night. 

“We _just_ got engaged.”

“Still.”

Steve kisses him, tapping their key card in the same breath. They spill into their room, the darkness start after the hallway, their mouths soft against each other. Earlier, they swung by and showered and changed to look more appropriate in the fancy hotel bar, but they undress now, button downs and jeans swapped out for pajamas. It’s midnight, later than either of them had realized. They each only drank one glass and Steve is not feeling it but Bucky’s cheeks are flushed a little unnatural and his eyes go a little too bright. Still, when they are in bed, he kisses Steve lightly on the lips.

It is, Bucky rationalizes, what they are supposed to do. It has been a long time since he tried to offer himself up to Steve when he didn’t want to, and that is not what’s happening now, but it does feel like going through the motions. Steve kissing him is nice, always, but when Steve leans over him and kisses his neck and moves one hand under Bucky’s shirt, he feels nothing but a swoop of resigned discomfort, a sense of wanting something that has not even started to be over.

“Just—Just wait,” Bucky says, and his voice is smaller than he expected. Steve stops, removing his hand from Bucky’s side and falling beside him, one hand gentle on his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve says, very gently. “It’s okay, baby. We don’t have to.”

Bucky bites his lip, anxious. “I don’t know. I want to. I just… I want to in theory. I don’t know.” He never knows what sex will be for him or when, if the disgust will climb, seemingly out of nowhere, into his stomach to feel like it is ripping him open or if he will be delighted by Steve’s hands and lips or if he will settle into the miserable neutrality that is the most familiar, the precursor to dissociation. It is the latter right now. 

“Hey,” Steve says. He thumbs along the line of Bucky’s jaw for a moment, and Bucky smiles at him. “Just ‘cause tonight’s a big night for us doesn’t mean we have to have sex. We quite literally have the rest of our lives.”

Relief, warm and sweet as honey. Bucky kisses Steve’s fingers and smiles, then burrows himself into Steve’s side. Steve kisses him on the forehead before extending an arm lazily for his laptop, opening it, and googling wedding venues.

Bucky, delighted, laughs and kisses Steve on the chin. “I’m thinking a Catholic church.” 

Steve snorts. “Oh, yeah, let’s see who we can get from our old congregation.”

Not even the dull, hard-wired sweep of anger that comes over Bucky when he thinks back to that is enough to dilute the joy. He reaches for Steve’s hands and slots their fingers together, squeezing, then kisses Steve’s knuckles.

“What took you so long?” Bucky asks happily.

“I mean, we’re young,” Steve says sheepishly. “I didn’t want you to think I was like, trying to tie you down.”

Bucky bursts out laughing, throwing his head back against the pillow and then moving immediately in to kiss Steve. “You’re a dumbass. We’ve been talking about this for years.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “but still.” He kisses Bucky on the nose, then the forehead.

“That’s also not what I meant. You said you bought it two months ago.”

“Oh!” Steve smiles. “Yeah, well. I don’t know, we’ve been busy, and your book came out, and that was like—I didn’t want to make you, like, not focus on that. And, I don’t know, I really wanted it to feel right.”

Bucky smoothes his thumb over Steve’s cheek. “It was perfect. It was exactly what I wanted.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve kisses him again, lazy and sweet. Their bodies are flush against one another, so close that the rise and fall of one another’s breath heaves gently between them, and when they fall asleep that way, twined around one another like roots from long-ago bonded trees, nothing is incomplete.

They stay only one more day, but it is a good one. Lazy ten am breakfast at an expensive restaurant, free mimosas given to them by their waitress because, when she asks how they are, Bucky pipes up, “Great! We got engaged last night!” A lunch picnic on the beach, mist whirling off the water, cold sand sticking to their jackets, giving beneath them when they kiss like teenagers, their skin raw and numb with the cold. Congratulations rolling in from people finding out through social media or word of mouth. A few small articles, society pages and tabloids, but none of them are exploitative or attacking.

That night, Bucky’s absence wakes Steve up. He sits up, orients himself, and says, into the dark, “Buck?” When he doesn’t get an answer, he gets himself up, worried for only a moment before glancing out onto the balcony and spotting him. 

He slides the door open and joins him. Bucky looks surprised, then guilty. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to wake you up, I just needed some air for a minute.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says gently. “Everything alright?”

Bucky nods, smoothing his hair back uselessly, the wind mussing it back right away. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. Have this sense that something terrible is about to happen.” At the alarm in Steve’s face, he adds, “It’s irrational. I know that. I just have this weird dread, though.” He wrings his hands a little. Steve takes them, then, when Bucky curls towards him, wraps his arms around his body and kisses his hair.

“Jennifer says…” Bucky starts quietly, then swallows. “She says that, um. Even though, you know, I’m happy and my life is good, I’m still um. Wired to feel like I don’t deserve good stuff, or—not like I don’t deserve it, but that I won’t get to keep it. I don’t know why, uh, why I haven’t gotten rid of that habit.”

Steve touches Bucky’s face, thumb stroking over the arch of his eyebrow and down his cheek. “It’s okay to feel that, Buck,” he says quietly. “And, you know, you’re acknowledging that it’s irrational, and that it comes from other places, you know?” Bucky nods, leaning the weight of his head into Steve’s hand, a movement that is always so full of trust that it makes Steve’s heart flip over with emotion. “I don’t think anything else terrible will happen.”

Bucky says weakly, “Just because something bad happens to you once doesn’t mean it can’t happen again.” Then he shakes his head, hard and fast. “I’m not—I’m just—oh, god, Steve, this is so good, you make me so happy, I don’t—I don’t want to lose you—” His breathing is short and stilted, and he shuts his eyes.

“Sh, baby, hey.” Bucky folds into Steve’s arms, trembling suddenly. Steve shifts so that Bucky can lean into his chest, working his hands gently through Bucky’s hair, soothing him. “Hey, baby. I’m right here. You’re not gonna lose me, ‘kay? I’m right here.”

Bucky nods against his chest. “Okay,” he whispers. There are still moments where it is impossible to believe that happiness can be for him, that his life is not some elaborate Trojan Horse opening up to reveal its true maliciousness. The more poignant the joy, the more extreme the fear.

But he hangs onto Steve, and they are not ripped away from one another, and he is held and guided gently to bed and cradled by the person he loves more than anything else in the world who has just asked him to stay with him forever. And it is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cafelesbian on tumblr! love u all very much thank u for reading and especially thank you henry <3


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting on a friday because nothing is real anymore

Being engaged, Steve and Bucky decide, is fun. There is a thrill in reaching a new first for their relationship, something anticipated for so long that now that it is here, it feels almost like an extended dream. Bucky feels a ridiculous, delightful swoop each time he catches sight of it on his finger.

New Year’s comes and goes, spent in their living room with Sam and Wanda and Natasha and Peggy, a midnight kiss and sleep less than an hour later. They haven’t all six been together in months, and it is a relief that it’s still easy, that Natasha and Peggy being flung out in different states from each other and everyone else has not changed the dynamic. Champagne is popped, the ring is shown off, Bucky beaming at Steve when everyone says it looks nice as if they haven’t all seen it.

“Not a bad year, 2016,” Bucky says that night, nestled into Steve’s side. “Personally, I mean. The world is shot to shit. But I published a book and got engaged.” He’s as close to drunk as he ever gets on purpose, which is not very. Steve kisses him lightly on the forehead.

Bucky, one early January evening, returns from a yoga class he took with Wanda to Steve in the kitchen cooking mac and cheese for them.

“Hey, love,” Steve calls out. There is the reliable shuffling of Bucky kicking off shoes and hanging up his coat, and then Penny trots happily into the kitchen, vest removed, staring Steve down until he fills her bowl. He has just bent over the oven to check on the food when there is a soft rap in the kitchen doorway. Surprised, Steve turns. Bucky leans against the wall there, smiling shyly, hands clasped behind his back.

“Hey, you,” Steve says, and grins. “You look cute.”

Bucky snorts. “The post-workout look does it for you?”

“Totally. How was that?”

“Really good.” He joins Steve at the oven, smiling when Steve kisses his cheek. “Oh, my god. On the subway home, I had the thought ‘I could really go for Steve’s mac and cheese tonight.’”

“It’s your lucky day.”

“I love you so much.” Steve smiles. Bucky kisses him one more time and says, “I’m gonna shower.”

When he returns, Steve has set their plates out. Bucky enters quietly, and Steve does not notice until Bucky clears his throat that he’s holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

“What’s that for?” Steve says, surprised. A little sheepishly, Bucky thrusts the bouquet into Steve’s hands, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. He has only changed into a cardigan and Steve’s tee shirt and jeans, but in the champagne evening light with the flowers, he looks elegant. Steve is about to tell him as much when Bucky reaches up and presses his fingertips lightly to Steve’s lips, a universal symbol for _don’t speak._ Steve raises both eyebrows and obliges. Fumbling a little, Bucky pulls out a small box.

“Um. This is a formality, I just… I thought you should have a ring too, if you want one. ‘Cause I really like mine, and it seemed a bit unfair. And also, ‘cause I can’t have someone thinking you’re available. So, Stevie, will you marry me, I guess.”

Steve bites his lip. Bucky looks pleased with himself, his eyes bright, and Steve kisses him softly on the mouth. “Yes,” he laughs, “I guess.”

Bucky giggles. He tucks himself into Steve’s side and Steve kisses his face, and Bucky slips the ring onto his left hand, an elegant gold band a little thicker than Bucky’s. He turns his hand, constricting and relaxing his fingers in admiration, then pulls Bucky in and kisses him.

Later, on the couch, Bucky flops himself into Steve’s lap. “The Grand Prospect Hall.”

“Where we had our prom?” 

Bucky nods, grinning. Steve snorts.

“Disneyland.”

This has been their game recently: trying to upstage one another with the tackiest possible wedding ideas. The extent of real wedding planning has been poring over websites for venues while cuddled up in bed and saying, “Oh, I like that,” with no intention to reach out to the property owners.

“Ooh, yeah, we can make everyone dress up as a Disney character.”

“Obviously, we have those photos in front of the castle.”

They smile at one another. Bucky reaches up and touches Steve clumsily on the chin. “Here’s a serious question, though. Do we invite our therapists?”

Steve considers this, amused. “Um. I don’t know what the proper etiquette is there.”

“We can ask Maria,” Bucky says, “if any of her patients have ever done that. And if it’s weird.”

Steve leans forward and kisses him on the nose. “Sure.”

These conversations, inevitably, evolve into real questions, the glittering excitement of something long anticipated finally in reach. They have done nothing in the way of real wedding planning, which everyone assures them is normal, there’s no rush and anyway, it’s fun to wait a little and take some time and think about it, but they will lie together and swap honeymoon locations, or cook dinner together and debate cake flavors.

They are congratulated again and again. Engagements and babies are the things people are most secondhand excited for, more so than any career achievement or long-fulfilled goal, weddings being the most universally understood measurement of success in a category that everyone, from their immediate consciousness, understands to be something to strive for. It’s bullshit, but Steve and Bucky don’t care. They accept congratulations and bouquets and bottles of champagne to stack in the back of their fridge, grinning and smug, maybe the only two childhood sweethearts to get to this point and not regret it.

An early Saturday morning that January: lazy, insignificant. Bucky rolls over when Steve kisses his head before leaving on a run, and sleeping for another forty-five minutes. When he rouses himself to the kitchen, he pours himself a glass of cold brew and fills Penny’s bowl and puts an english muffin in the toaster, and he is digging through the fridge for strawberry jam when his phone rings.

It’s Jennifer, which is very unusual. Bucky picks up with a tentative, “Hello?” and is surprised to hear her exhale sharply.

“Hey, Bucky,” she said. “I was just calling in to ask if you saw.”

“Um—” A fast swoop of panic, like a cut elevator cable. “Saw what?”

“It’s okay, it’s nothing bad—well.” She clears her throat. “Are you in an okay place to talk for a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, very fast. 

“Okay. Alexander Pierce’s lawyers just made a statement saying that he was diagnosed with liver cancer. I just… I wanted to see if you knew yet, and check in on how you were feeling.”

The toast springs up; Bucky startles back so badly that Penny lifts her head and trots over to him. “Um, what?”

Jennifer’s voice is very gentle when she says, “It’s terminal. They said he probably has a few months.”

The jam was right at the front all along. Bucky picks it up and spins it in his palm. “I… oh.” Mild vertigo closes in on him, and he pulls out a stool and slumps into it; Penny puts her head into his lap. “Oh.” 

“I know this news is really out of the blue, and even though it isn’t anything threatening to you, it can be distressing and disruptive to hear about abusers. And it might dredge up some feelings, and I just want you to remember that any reaction you have is okay.”

Bucky swallows hard. He feels profoundly weary, all of a sudden. “I… fuck. I just, um.” Infuriating tears have risen to his eyes. “What, um, is gonna happen to his money?”

“His money?”

“I just… I read that um, his kids don’t speak to him so I—I didn’t know who it would go to.”

With extraordinary patience, Jennifer says, “Well, um, that’s nothing for you to have to worry about. I know this is shocking, and it forces you to think about him in a really different situation than what you’re used to, and so whatever emotions or confusion it brings out are normal.”

Bucky’s mouth is dry. The monster under the bed reduced to a cancer patient with six months to live. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He searches himself for pity and finds none. Out loud, he says softly, “I don’t care.”

“That’s okay,” Jennifer tells him. “It is not your job to find sympathy for a person who did what he did to you.”

“Yeah.” There’s more dust on the counter than Bucky had realized, some cat hair, a few petals that came loose from their last bouquet. He needs to wipe that down later.

“Is Steve there?” 

“No.” Bucky rubs Penny’s left ear. He closes his eyes and pulls for a breath, and he feels he is coming back to himself, the numbness of his body falling away. “He’s on a run, I think he’ll be back in a few.”

“Okay. Let him take care of you, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to come in tomorrow? Or, if you feel like you really want to talk today, we can find a time.”

“No, that’s, um, that’s okay. Tomorrow.”

“Alright. Text me if you need to, yeah?”

He lifts his mug and finds his hand is trembling so hard he has to set it back down. “Thank you. I will.”

“Alright, bye Bucky.”

When he hangs up, he has eight new texts. Wanda and Sam and Carol, asking if he’s okay and he needs anything. Okoye, telling him she’s getting asked if he has any comment, letting him know he doesn’t have to say anything if he doesn’t want to. Scott, who wrote, _liver cancer is no joke. Serious misery :)_. Then, _sorry that may not have been the most sensitive (not to him to you). You alright ?_ Bucky reads them all then googles Pierce’s name, which makes his hands shake humiliatingly. Sure enough, CNN reports that his team has confirmed terminal cancer, he’s seeking treatment. A knot of panic curls in Bucky’s chest, the dissonance between Pierce who exists in his head and in nightmares and Pierce who apparently is rotting from within too much to bear. Penny, well aware of an impending panic attack, stands with her paws on his knees and nuzzles into his face, her nose cold and wet. Bucky doesn’t cry, but he trembles and gets close to hyperventilating until he can grit his teeth. He gets on the floor so he can hug Penny, her body warm and solid, and it must be only a few minutes later that Steve comes in and finds him.

“Hey, baby, hey.” The tender worry in his voice nearly drags a sob from Bucky’s throat. He moves in close and Bucky curls into his side. He shakes his head, a useless attempt at explaining to Steve what’s going on. He exhales, lungs quivering, burying his face in Steve’s neck even despite the clamminess and cold sweat. “It’s okay, Buck, you’re okay. What happened, love?”

Trembling, Bucky fumbles for his phone and holds it out, Chrome tab still open to CNN. He watches Steve, still and anxious, as Steve’s eyebrows lift and then he purses his lips and scrolls, skimming it, until he turns back to Bucky.

“Oh, Buck.” His voice is so soft. “Oh, babe. I’m so sorry that you had to find that out alone.”

Bucky nods. He feels brittle, his body cold and stiff, and he wants to bury himself against Steve again the way he needs to after nightmares. He does. Steve cradles him, his skin cold from the run, rocking him a bit, kissing the top of his head.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks softly. “What do you, you know, think?”

Bucky huffs out a weak laugh. “I don’t know. I, um.” He flexes his fingers and feels some of the blood return there. “I don’t know.”

Steve nods. “That’s okay,” he says softly. “How, um. How’d you find out?”

“Jennifer called me.” Bucky feels Steve exhale a little.

“That’s good.” Quiet. The chipper shrill of birds, faint outside of their window, the hum of the dishwasher. “What do you need, angel?”

Bucky shrugs. He feels numbly vulnerable, almost childlike. He bites his lip.

“I need to shower,” Steve tells him, rubbing circles over his shoulder. “If you want, we can take a bath.”

Relieved, Bucky nods.

Steve says nothing when Bucky strips only to boxers, just kisses his temple and does the same. The bathtub looks different in the morning, this tilt of the light unfamiliar, buttery and dreamlike as they step into the water. Steve washes Bucky’s hair even though he does not really need it, and Bucky leans in for a kiss only to smear bubbles over Steve’s cheek. They laugh and then they are quiet, Bucky leaning into Steve’s chest between his legs, eyes closed. Steve thinks he might have fallen asleep until he crosses his left arm over his chest and traces the scar on his right shoulder, staring at it, his eyes hard. Steve kisses the back of his head.

Bucky says, “He took so much from me. He hurt me so much, Steve.”

“I know he did,” Steve whispers. 

Bucky is quiet for a few moments. The strip of skin he is touching has long become useless and desensitized, but Steve still stops him when he pinches it.

“He’s gonna die,” Bucky says, “in prison. ‘Cause of me.”

“Bucky,” Steve begins, “Bucky, you have nothing to feel guilty about, okay? Nothing.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” Bucky says, his voice small and flat. “I’m just saying.”

He bristles, and then surrenders his weight to Steve again, all aggression gone.

They stay home most of that day. They order Thai food in the evening and eat it in front of several episodes of Bob’s Burgers, and Steve considers it a win when Bucky smiles. His head is resting on Steve’s shoulder, and he falls asleep there, one hand still clutching Steve’s shirt. Steve considers waking him and suggesting they head upstairs, but he doesn’t know if sleep will come easy to Bucky again so he strokes Bucky’s hair, kept restlessly awake, staring blankly out the front window at trees in shadow. It is a relief when his phone buzzes beside him and Sam’s name lights up the screen.

He sits up a bit. Bucky’s head lolls into his collarbone. “Hey, man.” His voice is gravelly and exhausted.

“Hey.” Sam sounds worried. “So, uh, anything of note happen to you today?”

Steve snorts. “Nope.”

“Seriously, Steve, how are you guys doing?”

Steve glances beside him. Bucky has not woken, so he eases him off, propping a pillow underneath him, and wanders into the kitchen.

“We’re alright. Not bad. I think it’s just emotionally draining for Buck.”

Sam hums, understanding. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright.” He is, really. There’s the roiling hate that always comes with hearing about Pierce, but it has been followed by a twist of hollowness, probably where any compassion that has been wired into Steve when he hears about cancer diagnoses would usually be. He just feels exhausted.

“Liver cancer, huh?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t have happened to a better guy.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, can’t say it’s a real tragedy. I just wanted to check in with you guys.”

“Thanks, Sam.” 

“Hey, you guys still up to dinner tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll check with Buck in the morning, but I think we will be.”

“‘Kay, great. Well, you know. Wanda and I are here for you.”

“Thanks, man. Love you guys.”

“Yeah, love you too. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Steve hangs up, then sets his phone aside and rubs Bucky’s back again. They stay for maybe fifteen more minutes, until Bucky whimpers a little in his sleep, his eyebrows pulling anxiously together. Steve kisses the top of his head and says, “Hey, baby, you’re okay, we’re home.”

Bucky stirs, winces, and blinks up at Steve. His face clears again, and Steve hopes he’s forgotten whatever he was dreaming about. He lays his head back into the crook of Steve’s neck and sighs.

“Wanna go up?” Steve asks him. Bucky nods, lets Steve help him to his feet, and sinks back into their comforter as soon as they are upstairs.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is small in the dark. Steve lays beside him and drapes one arm over him.

“Yeah, love?”

Bucky turns over, a flinch in his body. “Did I do the right thing?”

His face, troubled in shadow. Steve kisses his nose. “What do you mean, baby?”

Bucky waits a few moments. “I just… I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be safe. And I want… I want other people to be safe from him. But I didn’t want his life on my conscience, or anything.”

The words ache, spearing right through Steve’s chest. He strokes a hand down Bucky’s face and tucks his hair back for him. “Buck. You didn’t do this to him. And you don’t have anyone’s life on your conscience. All he did was hurt people, and you stopped that.”

Their bodies are so close that Steve can feel the hitch of Bucky’s breath. “Okay,” he whispers, and Steve pulls him close, and all stays well until the next day.

***

They are just home from the farmers market, paper bags full of apples and squash and cider donuts set on the counter, their fingers still cold, when Carol calls Bucky.

“Hey, Buck,” she says when he picks up. Her voice is clipped and anxious. “Um. I’m thinking you haven’t seen yet.”

Penny parks herself beside Bucky and looks up at him, tail swishing across the floor. “The stuff yesterday?” Bucky asks. “I did see.”

A short breath. “No, it’s not that. Look, just… okay. He gave this interview with a guy at the Times where he talks about a lot of shit, but he also talks about how he’s going to try for one of those medical release emergencies.”

Bucky’s brain short-circuits, and he is left silent again, waiting, as if she has not already told him why she’s called. “Um,” he says, “what?”

“Look,” says Carol. “Don’t panic, alright? I know—I know this is fucking, like, the last thing you need. And I know, like, ‘don’t panic’, is an unhelpful thing to hear. But I’d be really, really surprised if he got out for this. I just… I wanted you to know.”

“He did an interview?” Bucky repeats. He is vaguely aware of Steve and the space Steve is taking up around him, but the hand on his shoulder feels more like an imitation of comfort, like something he is watching through paned windows but cannot reach himself. He leans into Steve’s hand, and the touch solidifies some, and with it the reality of what Carol is telling him.

“Yeah,” she says gently. “Listen, Bucky. Don’t read it, okay? It’s not—there’s no new information in it, and he’s still a piece of shit.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, very breathless. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” She says something else, but he hangs up before it can fully register. He opens his laptop and finds the article within seconds. 

_An Interview with Alexander Pierce  
The disgraced financial mogul discusses white collar prison, compassionate release, family, and regret.  
By Michael Duffy  
January 10, 2017_

Bucky closes his eyes, dizzy. He thinks he leans his weight into Steve, because Steve’s arms are wrapped around him from behind a moment later and he is aware of how much of his balance is dependent on Steve, but it is not a conscious motion.

He starts to scroll, hand shaking. Steve stops him, gently.

“Buck,” he says softly. “Don’t, babe. Please. There’s nothing to be gained from reading it.”

Steve is right, of course, but Bucky bristles anyway. “Yeah, so I can find out through tweets and texts about it,” he snaps. “And it’s not like you’re not gonna read it yourself the second I’m out of here.”

“Buck,” Steve says weakly. “I don’t want you to have to read some awful shit he says.”

“I’m getting it out of the fucking way,” Bucky says flatly, and Steve does not argue with him anymore.

_The first time I met Alexander Pierce, he asked me to bring him a latte from a coffee shop fifteen minutes from the prison. This required me clearing it with the prison in advance, going through extra security, and answering a litany of interrogatory questions in order to bring his now lukewarm coffee into a room reserved for journalists and detectives and anyone else who apparently outranks the general visitation room. When Pierce was led in, he gave me a nod and took the latte, removed the cap, and closed his eyes like some kind of espresso connoisseur._

_“This isn’t hot,” he said to me after the first sip. Then, as an afterthought, “Thanks.” He proceeded to drink the whole thing. “I’m a cappuccino man, but I knew a latte would be bigger, and I needed some good fucking coffee.”_

_“Sure,” I said._

_Pierce took another sip, glanced around like he was checking if there was anything more worthy of his time. Then, apparently deciding not, he said to me, “So, you’re here for the Me Too angle, five years later, huh?”_

_Some background: Pierce is one of relatively few violent offenders serving a sentence at Otisville Correctional Facility, sometimes referred to as the luxury prison. Anyone who read the news four years ago is familiar, and probably disgusted, with Alexander Pierce. Convicted of predatory sexual abuse and subsequent attempted murder of the victim, Pierce is serving life with elligibility for parole, which would kick in twenty years from now when he is 89 years old: largely, a technicality. Otisville, infamous for housing white collar criminals, money laundering and racketeering and tax fraud being among some of the most common convictions here. Bernie Madoff requested to be sentenced to his 150 years here, and was denied._

_“I knew Bernie,” Pierce tells me, when I bring this up to him. He does not elaborate: it is apparently nothing more than a namedrop._

_I do not want to start off with asking a convicted rapist what he thinks of the movement to expose other high profile sexual predators, so I ask him what his days are like. He reads at one of the two libraries available to inmates, he walks laps around the prison yard. Most notably, he teaches other inmates important financial information, a sort of Econ 101. One of the most infamous inmates there, Pierce inspires a mix of reverie and disgust from other prisoners. He tells me that he has men he spends time with. They discuss news and media and their careers—most of them are in for embezzlement or money laundering or any number of those economic crimes that Pierce attempts to explain to me for over forty-five minutes. He never refers to any of them as friends, or even speaks about them personably or with warmth._

_He would never use the word lonely: he has the air of a man who resents vulnerability. But that is the word I think of when I hear about and see his life here. In an notably large population of Jewish inmates, Pierce is Catholic, or was—he rolls his eyes when I inquire about faith now. He does not single out any of the men he spends time with, to the point that I wonder if he knows their names or lives. Even in his previous life, as he refers to it, it is widely reported that Pierce surrounded himself not with friends but with people of similar tax brackets, many of them expendable (As I said, he offered nothing about the Madoffs but that he knew them)._

_“I’m fine here,” he tells me. “I mean, it’s a fucking embarassment. But I’m fine.” Then our hour is up, and he tells me he’ll see me in four days._

_“Does your family speak to you?” I ask. It is our second meeting and this time, I put his latte in a thermos, a decision that got me a respectful nod. In various made-for-tv documentaries and and local interviews, people who knew him, mostly former employees, would describe him as domineering and frightening, eliciting extreme anxiety of doing something wrong. Barnes, in a personal essay three years ago, described his presence as “changing the gravitational pull or the pH level in a room1.”_

  1. EDIT: A previous version of this article quoted Barnes out of context: the quote was not describing a characteristic of Pierce, but rather an observation on what it is like for victims to be in close quarters with their rapists. 



_In any case, this commandeering of a room seems to have stayed with him: I find myself glad I brought the latte. When I bring up his family, said approval vanishes, and I am left feeling like a secretary who double booked important meetings._

_Coldly, he says, “Some of them.”_

_“Your children?” I press._

_He purses his lips. “No.”_

_Three of them, two daughters and a son. His oldest daughter, Claire Vanderbilt, now goes by her mother’s maiden name. She works for a high profile senator from New York and has denounced her father in no uncertain terms. I emailed her, asking if she had anything to say in this piece, and got this response back._

_“He’s dead to me. Don’t contact me about him again.”_

_Eva Pierce, only thirteen at the time of her father’s conviction, is now a college student. While she did not respond to my request for comment, she has been vocal on social media about her disgust for her father. The day it was announced he had cancer, she tweeted, “yeah i know he’s a r*pist and abuser but he’s my dad and u should never celebrate can—lmao just kidding can u imagine, hope he rots in hell”. Below that, she included a list of organizations for rape victims, as well as a link to the aforementioned 2014 article Barnes wrote about Pierce._

_His son and namesake, his oldest child, could not be reached for comment. When I asked Pierce about him, he called him, “A junkie and an idiot, from what I hear.”_

_This contempt seems to be the typical attitude he employs with everything in any slight opposition. The jury was brainwashed, the prosecutors cheated, Barnes and the other witness who alleged having been assaulted by him lied. Pierce, who graduated from Harvard with a Master’s in finance, at thirty-five ran one of the most successful hedge funds of all time before taking over as CEO of Principle Trust Bank, is no idiot, was probably a genius when it comes to the business world. But when he talks about being wronged, he slides into conspiracy-theory hysteria, the same hate that got the best of him during his own testimony and that caused him to do what he did on the final day of his trial, an attack against the plaintiff that very nearly ended in tragedy._

_To this day, Pierce maintains innocence. It is almost impressive, his unwillingness to admit any wrongdoing. He speaks with such confidence that it is almost hard to believe he did all the things he was convicted of, if it were not for the mountains of unambiguous evidence. The story he gives is largely the same as his 2013 testimony, but without the snarling ravings against the plaintiff. I write in my notes ‘HE’S OBVIOUSLY PRACTICED THIS.’_

_“But you followed Barnes home from the trial,” I remind him, just to see what he says. “You’re not denying that, correct? You followed him, threatened him with a gun, and forced him to go back to your home.”_

_This does not phase him. “I was terrified,” he says. “I was unstable, I’d been drinking, it was a moment in my life that I was under immense pressure. Of course, it never should have happened. But I was reacting to the fact that I was about to be put away for actions that had been… misreported. Being slandered like that, so intensely and publicly, with such severe consequences… it would make anyone snap.” He pauses thoughtfully. He cleans his glasses. “Yes, that was a mistake. But even that was… twisted. I wouldn’t have shot him. I couldn’t have, it’s not my nature.”_

_“I have nothing to say about James Barnes,” he says, when I ask about him. But that is not the case._

Bucky closes his eyes for a few moments. 

“Buck,” Steve says, almost pleading. “Babe, c’mon, stop.”

_”He lied,” Pierce tells me. “I’ve explained this, I don’t have to explain it again.” But he goes into it anyway. “I made poor choices in my marriage and clearly, in who I hired as stress relief. But I didn’t rape him. It’s shocking to me that that’s not apparent by now. He’s nothing. The fact that he’s still in the news the way he is—I mean, to believe someone who used his sympathy in the public and his rich—they called it ‘boyfriend’, but it’s insulting to act like everyone knows he isn’t just a live-in rent boy—to get a book deal and then pretend this wasn’t an attention ploy—it makes me sick.”_

_To be clear: Barnes did get published recently, to favorable reviews and a spot in the New York Times’ 100 Best Books of 2016 list. I read his book at my wife’s recommendation: I enjoyed it very much, and was very impressed when researching this story to learn that he is twenty-five years old. There has never been any indication that he got any book deal because of his reputation from this trial. As for Pierce’s claim about Barnes’ relationship to Rogers, the two were in a relationship when they were younger, have lived together for five years, and got engaged several weeks ago. Take from that what you will: to me, it does not scream business arrangement._

_If the language is not enough and you need a clearer idea of what it is like listening to Pierce ramble about Barnes, then picture our president-elect speaking at a rally about anyone who has ever disagreed with him. (Incidentally, Pierce was friends with the new leader of the free world, and even got a tweet from him during the trial, calling him a wonderful man and deeming the accusations against him “terrible and untrue!”)_

_I left annoyed, and we did not meet again. Two weeks later, I am putting the finishing touches on a very different piece than the one you are reading now when Pierce calls me from prison, asks me if I can meet again. Surprised and gratified, I agree. I come the next day, no journalist appointment this time, no TSA-worthy clearance for a latte._

_I meet him at a table by the window seat in the visitation room, the equivalent of a popular kid in high school claiming the best cafeteria table, and Pierce says, “I’m dying of cancer.”_

_When he tells me this, before even a greeting, he raps his knuckles against the table top. I have never seen him do this before, and it is, I believe, the first genuine anxiety I witnessed from him._

_“Liver cancer,” he tells me wryly. “They say it could have been the drinking, but I think the universe just wants to fuck me.”_

_I tell him I’m very sorry. He scoffs, but not at my expense. “You know, I really didn’t think I’d die in here?” he tells me. “I knew I got life. But with parole, and good behavior, and overcrowding and frankly, my position in the world, I didn’t think I’d be in here as long as everyone wanted me to.”_

_“How are you feeling?” I ask him. “About this news, I mean.”_

_He looks weary for all of three seconds. “I’m feeling fucking wronged, Michael,” he tells me. “There are a number of ironies here, don’t you think?” I don’t, and I must look it, because he sneers a little and says, “Well, let me save you the intellectual labor. I am being murdered by a man who lied about me and put me into this place where I can’t get the treatment I otherwise would for a disease that can be exacerbated by drinking, a response I had to said lies being spread about me. And I’m the criminal.”_

_—_

_Pierce’s legal team—a new one, the third he has hired in four years, replacing the last who told him there would be no overturning of his sentence—has filed for compassionate release. The entire process, if his request is approved or moved to trial, should take between two to six weeks._

_I spoke to Pierce’s head lawyer last for this piece. I email her sitting in the Otisville Correctional Facility parking lot after speaking to Pierce, ignoring the knowledge that with this new information, my former draft is almost entirely useless, already drafting the apology to my editor in my head. I am surprised when she tells me she not only has time to meet, but she’s glad to._

_I drive back to New York and meet her at Uptown Roasters on 72nd where she is already sitting. Valentina Fontaine is alone, hair held back with one ballpoint pen, two empty cappuccinos beside her. She is a bombshell in more than just the courtroom: even poring through legal documents she looks glamorous._

_“Nice to see you,” she says to me, and her voice is more girlish than I thought. This is the woman who got an exoneration for an ex-ambassador after he was accused of ordering a hit that it is almost universally agreed he was guilty for. I smile and tell her the same._

_By hiring her, Pierce has made perhaps the first smart legal move since charges were filed against him. His ex-counsel, Arnim Zola, was disbarred two years ago for insider trading, and he has since gone through a mirage of other high profile lawyers in unsuccessful attempts at overturning his conviction. His newest appeal for compassionate release is the furthest any of these have gotten in court._

_“Look,” Fontaine says to me. “This is not a case about whether or not Mr. Pierce is guilty or not; We could debate the inconsistencies in the prosecution for hours, but that’s not what I’ve been hired to do. This is a man who is dying of cancer. Now, Mr. Pierce was given a life sentence with parole. Typically, that would have allowed him to argue for parole after twenty-five years. But his life is going to be cut short before he gets that chance, and I’m sorry, I just cannot see how anyone in good faith can support a man dying from a grave illness alone in prison. It’s not the legal standard, and it certainly isn’t moral.” She pauses and dabs at her lips, leaving a light red mark on her napkin. “I understand the rage and disgust at this man, truly. And I understand that some people feel like he hurt them. But that is not a precedent to allow a man to die of cancer alone in prison.”_

_Indeed, I have had a lot of reactions to the things Pierce has told me, most offshoots of disgust. Pierce has tried to evade responsibility at every turn, and even now, faced with a life sentence and mountains of proof of his guilt made public and obvious, he behaves as though it is subjective and furthermore, it is idiocy to believe it. Nothing he has said or done has given me any idea he has ever even toyed with remorse. Speaking with Fontaine, however, got me past that enough to ask the question of where the lines are drawn with medical parole, and what kind of things we are willing to say should prevent inmates from getting it granted. There are no specific crimes that prevent someone from seeking release, but violent crimes are noted in the request. In Pierce’s case, the timing is unfortunate—or, as many see it, fortunate—at the peek of #MeToo, a high profile convicted rapist getting release may not pass in the public eye._

_Compassionate release, by the way, is harder to come about than it seems to be, or perhaps should be. Pierce does not seem to care; he speaks about it as a certainty, the way the privileged so often do about things they want. But when I bring it up Pierce looks thoughtful, although I have by now begun to think he has just mastered the art of looking thoughtful—watch any pre-conviction interview and you may see what I mean. A slight turn of his head, a grimace. He rubs the spot where his wedding ring would have once been. _

_Just before leaving my last meeting with him I asked him, if it is granted, how he would spend the rest of his days._

_“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m tired. Donate some money. Maybe write a book, I hear they’re publishing anyone these days.”_

Steve was right: there was nothing to be gained from reading it. Bucky shuts the laptop so hard that it quivers, then puts his face in his hands. Steve rubs between his shoulder blades, and Bucky counts his breaths until he lifts his head again.

Afterburn spots Bucky’s vision: he feels unhinged. “How the fuck is this happening?” He wants something to break, but instead he balls his hands into fists and slumps over, bent at the waist. Steve gets to him, his hands on Bucky’s back, on his face, pulling him close. Bucky buries against him, too wrung out to cry.

“He’s not gonna get out,” Steve says softly. It’s the first that either of them have spoken.

“You don’t know that,” Bucky mumbles. Steve places his hands on Bucky’s, and it takes Bucky a moment to realize that it is because he’s pinching his wrist. He shuts his eyes.

“That jackass who wrote the article said it himself. It’s really hard to get that granted.” The confidence in Steve’s voice gives Bucky a moment of relief.

“Oh, god,” Bucky whispers again. He has the violent and uncharacteristic urge to sweep his laptop off of the counter and let it shatter, but instead he puts his head in his hands.

“Buck,” Steve says, so softly. When Bucky doesn’t say anything, he lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder that Bucky shrugs off, turning away. “Bucky, babe, it’s—”

“Don’t,” Bucky snarls, “Steve, do not try to fucking rationalize this with me or tell me it’s okay because it isn’t.”

“Okay,” Steve says softly. “Okay, Buck. What can I do for you?”

Bucky grinds his palms into his eyes and shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says wearily. “I have a headache. I’m gonna lie down.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “baby, please. Please talk to me.”

“Steve.” Bucky stops in the doorway. He looks astonishingly tired. “I’m just lying down.”

“Okay,” Steve says, because he can’t think what else to say. “I love you. Do you… do you want me to stay with you?”

Bucky wrings his hands around one another. “Love you, too,” he says.

Steve waits forty restless minutes, then goes upstairs to Bucky. He feels lightheaded and buzzed and terrified by the noncommitment of all of this. It would be one thing to be told he is getting out. Instead, they are now in a useless purgatory, a terrible waiting grace like watching a beloved pet in a hospital. He does not speak to anyone, not even Sam. He reads through some confusing, convoluted articles attempting to explain medical parole, which make him feel fractionally better. He has not really begun to process the admittedly small but still very real threat that Pierce might get out, he is so alight with rage at the article. When he was younger, it would have made him want to fly off the handle. Now, it makes him feel sick and paralyzed, like he has been injected with some awful drug. It is no better or worse, it just lacks the recklessness that would have filled him up and blinded him ten or five or three years ago, a thrumming anger that has quieted and ebbed because of the peace that Bucky has given him.

He goes upstairs. Bucky is lying on his side on top of the covers. He is not asleep, but he’s very still and his eyes are closed. Penny is curled into the crook of his legs. Steve eases beside him and takes his hand, and Bucky squeezes.

“Talked to Jennifer,” Bucky says softly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she help?”

“Kinda. I don’t know.” Bucky grimaces. “She says they’re gonna want me to testify at his hearing. Or write a statement.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Steve. “Are you gonna?

“I’m not fucking testifying. I’ll write a letter.” His fingers constrict around Steve’s. “You know, this is a nightmare I’ve literally had. Like, I’m walking down the street and I see him and it’s ‘cause he’s gotten out on some fluke.”

“He’s not gonna.”

“You don’t know that.” It is not accusatory, just a statement of fact. He closes his eyes again. “God. Fuck.”

“Buck, what can I do for you?”

Bucky shakes his head. Then he wraps his arms around Steve’s middle, buries his face in his chest, and begins to cry. Not terrified, breathless sobs, just exhausted weeping. Steve holds him. It is the only thing he can do for Bucky.

When the warden calls for the obligatory informing the victim, it is evening and Bucky already dismissed the thought that he would call today. He is lying on the couch with Steve, a bowl of pasta half-eaten, a nature show that he is barely watching in the background. 

“Hello?” Bucky sounds so tired. Steve moves his thumb in a lazy circle over Bucky’s bicep. “Um. Yes.” With tremendous effort, Bucky sits up, shakes out his hair and sets his phone to speaker. He glances briefly at Steve, his eyes full of anxiety.

“Hello, Mr. Barnes. I’m calling about the upcoming medical parole trial for Alexander Pierce. As a victim, you’re entitled to make a statement in favor of or against granting compassionate release to Mr. Pierce.” Steve watches Bucky. His chest feels like it will burst at the seams. Bucky’s eyes are closed and his chin is tucked against his chest, a look of such total defeation that Steve has to wrap his arms around Bucky and kiss his shoulder. “Mr. Barnes? Are you there?”

“Yes,” Bucky says hoarsely. “Um. I should talk to a lawyer about this.”

“Sure,” the warden says, and Steve feels his throat clench at the condescension. “But the trial is going to be held in about two weeks, so let me know your decision as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” Bucky says shortly. “Thank you for everything you do.” Steve snorts despite himself. Even Bucky manages the faintest smile.

They don’t talk about it anymore after that. They both shower and climb into bed where they lie close and tangled up and do not fall asleep. They are both aware of each other being awake. They forgot to close their curtains, so grey moonlight streaks in, falling over their comforter. They’re curled into one another, their legs wrapped around each other, and Steve is running his hand up and down Bucky’s spine while Bucky clings to him. He is surprised Bucky is letting him touch his back, but it seems to be comforting him.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

Steve feels Bucky swallow. “Nothing.”

“You sure, angel?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” Steve says, and pulls back enough to look at Bucky, his frightened eyes grey in the dark. “Let’s go somewhere while this is happening.”

“Where?” Bucky says softly.

“I don’t know. Upstate, or Maine, or Western Mass or something. Just somewhere quiet. I think it’ll feel better.”

“But… but don’t you have meetings and stuff?”

Steve brushes his thumb across the tip of Bucky’s nose. “I can reschedule them, babe.”

Bucky closes his eyes and exhales. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

Steve leans forward and kisses him lightly on the nose. A ghost of a smile spreads across his face.

“You know what I can’t figure out?” Bucky whispers, his voice flat and weary. “The fucking timing.”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky swallows hard; his lips tremble. “Just like. He got this diagnosis a week ago, say, ‘cause it’s announced three days ago. And then immediately, this article is ready to come out.” He pauses and squeezes Steve’s hand. “Do you think that he, like, asked the guy to publish it fast? So that it helps him in this appeal, or whatever?”

Steve exhales through his teeth. He had not thought that before, but it seems too logical not to be the case. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, probably.”

Bucky sits up, jerking away from Steve not on purpose, just in his sudden urgency to move. He presses his hands over his eyes and does not flinch when Steve sits up with him and lays a hand on his back. It is dark enough that they can barely make out one another’s expressions, but they don’t really need to.

“I…” Bucky begins, and then takes a hard gulp of air. “How can I care so much what he says about me, Steve?” His hands move through the air, a little frantic, until they find Penny and settle on her fur. “It’s like—fuck, it feels like hearing him say that stuff all—all over again, it’s like he’s—he knows so well how to fucking humiliate me. Jesus. It’s like I’m fucking twenty again.” His hands are trembling a little, and he squeezes the comforter to stop them. “It’s like he’s erasing me,” he adds, and his voice is so small.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. “Bucky, I promise you’ll be okay, we’ll be okay. I promise. He’s… he’s fucking nothing. He’ll be nothing forever, and no one will care when he dies. And you will—you’re my fucking everything, Buck, but you are… the life you’ve made, and the ways you have succeeded, and just… the goodness you put out into the world with everything you do, that is so much bigger and truer than anything he could say. And everyone knows that, Bucky, literally everyone. So you can’t let him take that away from you. He could never.” Steve’s voice quivers a little with the effort. For once, he thinks, for once let Bucky believe this.

Bucky’s eyes are soft and a little sad and very tired, but he leans into Steve’s side and nods. “Okay,” he whispers, his voice soft. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i feel like i should give the heads up that even i have a limit of Angst I can take and i promise this is not going to be a bucky and steve getting stalked and harassed fic they have had enough of that!
> 
> also. big thanks to henry always and also to [this interview](https://nymag.com/news/features/berniemadoff-2011-3/) with bernie madoff who is name dropped here hajfhkds for being like, a template, if you are interested in white collar crime like i am it's definitely very interesting
> 
> anywayyyy i rlly wanna finish this before i go back to school in feburary but we will see if that happens, lots of love to you all, say hi at cafelesbian on tumblr if u like


	6. six

Bucky feels utterly numbed that next morning. It is, he decides, preferable to the dread and terror that crop up in him occasionally every few hours. He is flooded with emails from journalists who apparently skipped Okoye and went straight to the source. He does not answer them. At therapy, he bites his nails down to the cuticles until Penny gently eases his arm down to come and rest at her head. He is scared. He is lots of things, but he is scared, even in the knowledge that, should the worst happen and Pierce achieves this insane grab for a release, it would not change Bucky’s life in any concrete way. But still.

There had been a horrible, crystallizing sensation, when he’d first been with Steve in that expensive apartment that feels as brief and long ago as a stay in a hotel, that what Bucky had done would catch up to him. He had thought, at first, that it could be days or it could be years that he deceived Steve, but one day, his choices would come back, an old client recognizing him and jeering on the street or a photo sent to Steve of the disgusting things he had done, back before he had told Steve about his life without him. And those things had happened, and worse things had happened, and Steve loved him through it, endlessly and impossibly, and even though that sense that the end was coming hadn’t vanished, it hasn’t plagued Bucky in a long time.

But it is here, a weight in his throat that has spread to the rest of his body, a terror of what is to come. He has grown and matured but he sometimes thinks his fear has not done the same. He may be braver and safer and better at understanding what happened to him wasn’t his fault, but he does not think he will ever stop being scared. 

He is exhausted when he gets home, almost more than he can take. Steve is in the laundry room, and the smell of fabric softener is strangely comforting and he burrows into Steve’s arms before even saying hello.

“Hey, love,” Steve says. “How are you?”

He rests his forehead on Steve’s shoulder and shrugs. Steve’s hand comes to rest at the back of his neck and he kisses Bucky on his temple.

That is one thing that has changed in him, Bucky notes, and thinks wearily that Jennifer will be pleased to hear him acknowledge this. In the past crises of his life, the misery has always been made worse by the conviction that everyone who loved him was incorrect to do so, and one morning they would wake up with the total knowledge of his awfulness and leave him alone. Steve, first and foremost, but also his friends, disgusted by how much time they’ve invested in someone selfish and unfixable, and his therapist, finally understanding he is a lost cause. That conviction does not rise in him now. He is loved, he knows now, uncorrupted love, unflinching love. Even if he sometimes does not get why, he knows that he is. So he leans into Steve and is not gripped with panic about being abandoned or hurt by him once he understands what Bucky has done to him, and that relief is like a noose cut from around his throat. 

“I love you,” Bucky whispers to Steve. He means, _I love you, too,_ but he does not have the words or energy to explain to Steve, and Steve tells him he loves him back and Bucky’s brain does not try to warp or reject it.

So for all the sudden misery of this situation, he is flushed with comfort. Wanda and Sam and Scott come over and the five of them order Thai food and they all give so much to Bucky at a moment when he can give them nothing back. He feels sealed in, leaning into Wanda’s side, her arm around his shoulders, all of the unspoken understood. Everyone waits for Bucky to bring it up, but he does not feel that they expect it from him, so it hovers there in the air, a tether he can cling to and feel gently tugged by all of them if he wants it, but one that no one is waiting for. 

They eat around the table and then spread around the living room, a bag of Tate’s cookies left on the coffee table for everyone to grab at, the mostly finished bottle of wine from dinner waiting for someone to finish it off. It is almost pleasant, the overhanging worry receding to a dull hollowness between Bucky’s ribs, the kind of unhappiness that does not go away, but fades enough that the specificities of it don’t bother him.

“We got an Airbnb for two weeks,” Steve is telling them. Bucky has been sitting beside Wanda for most of the night, but he detaches himself from her side to burrow into Steve, who wraps Bucky in his arms and kisses his hair.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam smiles over his empty wine glass, then finally folds and reaches for the bottle, claiming the last of it. “Good for you guys. That’s a great plan.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” says Bucky. “It’s, uh, you know. Stressful.” His voice strains with emotion, and he tries to correct it by biting his cheek.

“Are you gonna… have to testify?” Wanda, her voice tentative.

Bucky gives her a weak smile to promise it’s okay to ask. “No. I gotta, um, write a letter.” He twists his hands, he twists the ring around his finger. “I mean. I could testify, but, um, I don’t want to.”

“That’s good,” she tells him. “That’s really good.”

“Did you read the article?” Bucky asks them wanly. Wanda and Sam glance at one another, and Scott twirls his glass. “It’s fine. I don’t care.” 

“Some of it,” Sam tells him. “We didn’t get through the whole thing.”

“Did you?” Bucky asks Scott.

“Yeah,” he says, a little guilty.

“What’d you guys think?” He is really asking. He wants to know how it reads to people—if not impartial—than more removed from it than he and Steve. 

“Garbage,” Sam says hotly. Bucky is momentarily surprised, then gratified, by the protection in his voice.

“One time, during my one semester of college,” Scott says, “I smoked a lot of weed, then realized I had a paper due the next day, so I took a couple Adderall to balance it out, then I tried to write this paper but I got like, three sentences down ‘cause I was throwing up. And it was better than that piece.”

Bucky laughs and is shocked by how genuine the laughter is. “Yeah?”

“It was fucking stupid,” Wanda adds. “What a piece of shit. Just utter fucking garbage. I mean, not that I really expected him to have changed, but what an evil, evil person.” Bucky smiles, touched by her rage. She smiles back. “What did you think of it?” Wanda asks him gently. Then, blushing a little, “Sorry, really dumb question.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. Steve is running his hand up and down Bucky’s back, pausing every so often to squeeze his shoulder, and Bucky leans into the touch. “That it was fucking stupid.” He swallows hard; something cold and metallic lodges itself into his throat and tints the words. “I fucking… the guy who wrote it trying to like, humanize him, at the same time trying to make it, like, obvious that he doesn’t support rapists, and also clearly wanting to fuck the lawyer. I mean, at least it was fucking on brand.” He shuts his eyes for a moment and shudders. “Yeah. It… it felt really fucking bad.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” Wanda says softly.

“I could have him killed for you,” Scott offers. Bucky snorts. “Nah, I bet some of my prison guys could work some magic. There’s probably some kind of inter-prison murder ring. Like in _Breaking Bad._ ”

“Thanks, Scotty,” Bucky says. “I’ll just let the cancer do that.”

“So you’re going away for a little?” Wanda says. Alpine has crawled into her lap and is batting at her long hair. “Who’s watching these two?”

“We’re taking them,” Bucky says, and smiles. “Cat friendly house.”

“We were actually gonna invite you guys, if you wanted,” Steve adds. Comforted by his voice and his closeness, Bucky nuzzles absently into his shoulder and is kissed on the hair.

“Not all of us have jobs that let us leave town for two weeks,” Sam informs him.

“This is your Christmas break,” Wanda tells him. 

“I was talking about you, _babe_.”

“I could get a few days, though,” Wanda says, elbowing Sam in the ribs. “I don’t work next weekend, and I could use like, two vacation days.”

“Seriously?” Bucky says. “That’d be really nice, guys.”

“You in, Scott?” Steve asks him.

“Ha, I wish. I’ve got a baby to take care of, if you forgot. And a girlfriend who’s busy all the time ‘cause she just published this world famous writer.” Bucky flips him off. “You guys definitely should, though. That’ll be nice, I think.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Steve. Bucky lays his head into the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, just until Steve kisses the top of his head. 

Their friends leave around eleven. They are sure not to leave any extra work behind, not even a forgotten glass of wine or a used fork in the sink, so Steve and Bucky are left with no extra work. They look around their clean kitchen in shared appreciation, and then Bucky puts his arms around Steve, where he holds on for a moment before detaching himself.

“You okay?” Steve asks him, very gently. Bucky nods. He is in the process of filling a water glass, and he throws back two Advil and swallows. Then he returns to Steve and rests his forehead on Steve’s shoulder for a moment, eyes shut against the dull headache that will not retreat.

“Mind if I shower?” he says. His voice comes out normal, which is a relief.

“No, ‘course not.” Steve kisses him on the hair. “You need anything?”

Bucky shakes his head, kisses him once, and heads upstairs.

In the shower, Bucky turns the water on a little too hot and puts his head against his knees, defeated not by fear but by barbed-wire exhaustion. He is too tired to cry, but his body trembles.

Bucky is so protected. By Steve, by the money that lets him do things like leave for two weeks to minimize the miserable reminders, by the law, which googling seems to suggest would probably put any potential release contingent on staying away from Bucky, and the improbability of said release, anyway, according to Jennifer and Carol, who both have limited knowledge. But the dread is immovable, solid and gigantic as a mountain.

He knows he should write the letter, but the thought of it makes his hands shake. He doesn’t even know what it is supposed to say, if there is an official way he has to address it to a court or jury. He looked, for about three minutes, at a paper explaining what is supposed to be considered in these circumstances. Time served vs. length of sentence. Severity of crime, and whether a release would trivialize that. Victim comments. Whether the prisoner is a risk for committing another offense.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to put into words the vivid, grueling terror that doesn’t leave one’s body after they experience it, that had been dormant for months and then reared its ugly head a few days ago at Alexander’s words. He doesn’t know how to explain to a judge that it doesn’t matter whether or not he will reoffend, it doesn’t even matter if cancer has made him too weak to do so if he wanted to, letting him out would be like slashing at a healing wound and then leaving it to fester and burn. There is no way to say this that is not just him begging to let a sick old man die alone. He thinks about Ava Starr, who, last time he looked her up, was living in London working high up at a shipping company with a husband and a baby. He thinks about the email he got years ago, telling him that he was not the only one who’d had that done to him by Alexander.

Bucky lifts his head, blinking against the spray. _It doesn’t matter_ , he thinks to himself, and almost wants to laugh. That is what he used to tell himself to rationalize the worst of the agony. _It doesn’t matter. This isn’t anything you haven’t done before. It’s going to end._

But he is going to die in less than a year, provided there is no miracle. Bucky finds himself disgusted by the idea that someone’s weakness salvages them somehow. He was weak when Alexander raped and abused him, he was weak when the press was calling him a slut and a liar. Alexander does not deserve the privilege and dignity of a death in an expensive home surrounded by comforts. _I don’t care how sick he is_ , Bucky imagines writing to the court, _why should my security give for his comfort? Why have you even allowed the request to go this far, a rich, guilty man still bending a broken system to what he wants even when this is supposed to be over? He deserves nothing but the worst. Letting him die alone and in pain is one billionth as bad as the things he did to me._

The water has turned cold. Bucky gasps. He has been more prone to triggers the last few days, this he knows, and his body goes slack and horrified at the sensation of being trapped under cold water. 

He gets out of the shower and dries off and dresses. He twists the ring on his finger, he rubs cream over his hand, his skin soft and smooth from the privilege of his life, he leaves the bathroom and kisses the top of Penny’s head, then Steve’s. He pulls on a long sleeve shirt so he can pretend the scars are not there. He should let Steve spread lotion over his back, but he knows that if Steve were to touch them all of Bucky’s strength would give.

Steve is sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulders a little hunched. Bucky sits beside him and leans towards him. There is a tremble thrumming through him, the need to cry with no energy to do so. He lays his head on Steve’s shoulder and Steve kisses his hair.

“You’re cold,” he tells Bucky, surprised. Bucky shrugs. “You alright, baby?”

“Define ‘alright,’” Bucky says, voice hoarse. Steve kisses him again, one arm around his shoulders, and Bucky bends towards Steve, enveloped by him. There are things he wants to say but he knows any words will throttle him, so he lets himself be held and comforted instead.

***

Their fourth morning on what cannot quite be called a vacation but doesn’t seem to fall into any other category, Bucky wakes and feels the absence of pain like a miracle. He slept later than usual and did not have nightmares, making that the first of such nights this week. The relief almost makes him weep. He has been waking in the morning not quite rested, his lower back aching from the events of dreams recalling things from years ago, pain that does not recede with Advil. Some of them are the typical re-experiencing dreams that make him tremble and gasp, but some of them are new and unsettling. He dreams, one night, that he is in a bookstore signing, which he has not done yet but is supposed to a month or so from now, and he looks up and Alexander is standing there, healthy as ever, watching him with a neutral, searing look that frightens Bucky so much that he is able to think _this is a dream_ and jerk awake.

_I hear they’re publishing anyone these days._ He feels like a child whose prize project has been demeaned in front of everyone, and he hates himself for feeling that. Alexander is nothing, a liar and a rapist trying to retain his last gasps of attention before his death. It makes him feel ungrateful, that he should obsess this much over it when the people who matter to him and even people he will never know have flooded him with kindness. But it is like Alexander touched and dirtied something sacred to him, something he built despite the brutality, a final violation of something Bucky never thought he would get to. It’s irrational, but he cannot help it.

But still. The change of location does help.

They have talked about buying a house upstate, although they quickly agreed that no one should own more than one home and decided not to so they are renting. Still, there is such peace there, even as the hardness of that week presses in on them. They fall into a simplicity that makes them each wonder, occasionally, if they would be just as happy living out on a farmhouse miles away from anyone else as they are in their brownstone. In the mornings, Steve runs seven or eight miles just before Bucky wakes up, long empty roads walled in by pine trees, the sky over him watery gray, unchanging, almost melancholy beauty. Bucky wakes and sits at the table by the property’s pond, glasses sliding down his nose, flannel blanket pulled around his shoulders, laptop open to what he hopes will be the next published book a year or two from now. When Steve returns and slides in next to him, he shuts the computer and lays his head on Steve’s shoulder, watching fog whirl up from the water and muting the green of the trees. In the afternoon, they drink coffee from a french press in a sunlit kitchen, the cats staring endlessly out the big window at a field of frosted grass, their tails stiffening at squirrels and sparrows and the occasional family of deer. Every room in the house has enormous windows, and they snuggle up on the couch in front of a fire and read or write or sketch or watch tv, and it is almost enough to forget why they are there in the first place.

They are happy. Bucky can say that without hesitation or bargaining, if not without surprise yet. He is proud of himself, pathetic as it might be, that he is strong and secure enough that something like this that, a few years ago, would have utterly shattered him, can instead be folded into a manageable size and not consume him with fear and pain. 

But it is still hard. Survivable, but fucking hard. 

Their fifth day there, two days before Sam and Wanda are going to come meet them, Bucky sends the fucking letter. It gets written in the living room of their rental house as he sits across from Steve, their knees touching, reaching every few minutes to squeeze Steve’s hand. He had tried doing it alone and been unable to finish one sentence, and he had tried to do it sitting next to Steve on the couch, which had been even worse. He had been seized by the anxiety of Steve reading what he wrote and being flooded with disgust as if Steve didn’t already know the things that had happened to him, the same terror that he lived with every minute when he was twenty years old and he couldn’t even say the word rape.

He left a lot out when he testified, even though Jennifer and Maria Hill and Carol had all told him it was better to be as specific as possible. He remembers this staring at the open document and tastes blood in his mouth, and it feels terribly familiar, like sitting in that police precinct shaking and crying and holding Steve’s hand, like bouncing his leg in Maria’s office all those years ago, shaking his head when she prompted gently, _anything else you can remember, any other specific occurrences_ , like if he could make the abuse seem generic enough, he would come out less damaged. And so it took him months and months and months to say to Steve and even to Jennifer some of the things that Pierce had done to him, the creativity of some of those punishments, the brutality. He does not write these things down for a faceless judge to decide if they are too terrible or not to warrant release, but he is afraid of not being convincing enough. He does not, typically, think of anything as unfair towards him, because inherent in that is an entitlement to fairness that he still does not quite hold. But he thinks, watching the blinking cursor, _this is not fucking fair_.

“Buck?” Bucky blinks, startled. Steve is watching him, still squeezing his hand. “You there, love?”

Bucky swallows hard and nods. “I wish,” he says bitterly, “that I could tell them that he, you know. Tried to put a fucking hit on us. With another guy who raped me. But I’d sound so fucking crazy.” A shudder rolls through him, and he presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

Steve kisses his knuckles, and he sighs, slumping into Steve’s shoulder and pushing the computer aside. Steve wants to say he’s so sorry, but he has said it enough and it isn’t his fault and he’s so sorry that trying to say it sounds flimsy and weak. He holds Bucky in his lap instead, kissing him on the head and shifting for him to press closer, and he thinks that that means more, anyway. They stay there for some time, then make coffee, then sit on the floor opposite each other. Steve watches Bucky’s face, the pain and weariness and unbearable bravery, and wants to do something worthy of him like build a new city or arrange a new constellation.

When he is finished, Bucky lets Steve read it, though he tells him not to say anything, and Steve doesn’t. He sends it to Natasha, who fluffs up the legal jargon, and passes it onto the fucking warden who is supporting Pierce. He sends it while sitting beside Steve, his arm over Bucky, and then shuts his laptop hard and lays across Steve’s lap, burying his face in his stomach.

“I’m proud of you,” Steve says softly. Bucky shrugs. “It’s gonna be alright. I’ve been… reading about this stuff. It’s not… It is really, really unlikely that he gets out.”

Bucky shrugs again. It is not that he doesn’t want to talk to Steve—although he doesn’t especially want to talk about this—but the roiling anxiety moves through him, clamping down in his throat, and he cannot speak about it. Steve, for the moment, seems to accept that. He strokes Bucky’s hair and scratches lightly at the nape of his neck, and the touch is so comforting that it loosens Bucky’s chest enough to speak again.

“What if he’s right?” Bucky says, so quietly. Steve’s hand goes still in his hair so he is bracing Bucky’s head, but the sensation of his head held in Steve’s lap does not make him flinch. He is safe, unequivocally, splendidly safe. “What if, um.” He swallows hard, shuts and opens his eyes, stares at the snag on the couch backrest. “I don’t, um. I don’t wanna, like. I don’t want anyone to die alone in prison of cancer. But it’s _him_. And I just… god, I’m not… I don’t know, I don’t know.” Bucky sits up, his movements fast and jerky, his vision bright with afterimage from closing his eyes for so long. He pulls his knees to his chest, and Steve is there, one arm over Bucky’s shoulders and his other hand on his leg, moving his thumb in tiny circles. “I just… I hate him, Steve, I hate him _so much_ , but I…” He swallows hard, his face anguished. “I don’t want… I don’t want to be bad like him, I just—I don’t want to have anger, like that, and I know it’s fucking stupid to like, act like I have to forgive him, or something, ‘cause I’ll _never_ forgive him, but I just… I don’t fucking know.” He holds his head in his hands, and Steve pulls him in, kissing the top of his head and holding him while he shivers.

Steve aches for him, for this reminder that despite everything, all the joy of Bucky’s life and the magnificent things he has built for himself and the love that surrounds him on every side, he is still so vulnerable to those who hurt him, like a healed over wound that festers and burns again at even a faint reminder of pain. 

“Buck, you are not in the wrong here. Not even the tiniest bit.” Bucky shrugs, noncommittal. “Baby, you’re asking for this fuckin’ psycho not to get out and into a position where he can hurt more people like he’s proven is all he knows how to do. No one in the world would think you’re being cruel for that. Even his kids don’t want him out.”

Bucky nods vaguely. None of this comforts him the way he wishes it would. “He… if he’s dying of cancer, he’s probably weak and like, in a wheelchair, and couldn’t—couldn’t do that to anyone anyway.”

Bucky is laying his hand lightly over Steve’s chest; Steve reaches up and takes it, squeezing. “Buck,” he says quietly, “it doesn’t make you a bad person to hate him. He hurt you so, so badly. You shouldn’t have to let that go because he’s sick, now.”

Bucky looks thoughtful, but he does not answer. He bites his lip and weaves his fingers in and out of Steve’s, chin trembling a little, but he does not cry.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky asks him quietly, after a minute. Steve raises his eyebrows. “Um. You know. This is a guy who tried to kill you.”

Weakly, Steve laughs. “Fuck, you know. I want him to suffer like a live pig on a spit.” Bucky doesn’t quite startle, but he does look a little surprised by the violence of Steve’s words. 

Steve used to wonder who hated Alexander more, he or Bucky. They are very different kinds of hate, he understands now. If the hate he harbors for all of the men who hurt Bucky, but Pierce especially, is a fire, so hot and huge and bright that it blinds Steve when he lets it stoke, then the hate Bucky holds is the blackened and burnt ashes and remains of catastrophe, still and suffocating. It is the terror that makes the difference. Even now, Bucky still flinches when they have to walk past any branch of the bank that Pierce used to be in charge of and turns his head away from cop cars when they go by. There is nothing in the world as visceral as the hate towards someone who hurt a loved one, as clean and sharp as an unused blade. It is so vivid and sickening that when he thinks of Alexander, he thinks not of how he waved a gun in Steve’s face but that he abused and raped and tried to murder Bucky.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Yeah, me too.”

***

Almost since the very beginning of this, Bucky has been trying to maintain a state of normalcy for Steve. It is not out of any real fear, and it is not even completely conscious, but he is aware of an uncomfortable coil in his core that tells him this is supposed to be a very happy time in their life and he is threatening that. He is happy, is the thing, but the niceness of this place and this trip is undercut by the reason they are here, like a wine stain that will not come out of a white linen shirt despite all the scrubbing. He is filled with a fervent, indescribable desire to maintain the ease and happiness of their last months, when it had finally begun to appear that the idea of the future had grown bigger than the reality of the past, and now this, sick and unbelievable, like the reemergence of a tumor. 

And so he is not lying to Steve, or hiding from Steve. He is just not mentioning that he stands in the shower for longer than he usually does, his arms wrapped around himself, trembling, or that sometimes when Steve kisses the back of his neck it takes him an extra second to register it as something safe and wanted.

They are happy, Bucky thinks, they are happy in this place and in this moment in their lives. It’s just that happiness underscored by panic is not a state that can really be maintained.

That evening, it is mostly happiness. Bucky ignores the vague heaviness that presses insistently at his chest when he forgets what is going on, instead laughing with Steve over a squash and cauliflower dish that they made quite well. 

“Vegas,” Steve says.

Bucky, rinsing the pan they had used for sauteing vegetables, blinks, then laughs. “For the wedding or the honeymoon?”

“Both,” says Steve.

“We could just go, gamble our wedding budget, and then if we win we can do something crazy and expensive but if we lose it all, Vegas wedding chapel it is.”

“That’s an idea,” Steve says.

“Seriously, I don’t think a Vegas wedding would be the worst. Not for us, obviously. But, like, it’s kinda cute in theory. Like, the idea of just gathering your people ‘cause you want to get married fast, so badly.” Steve raises an eyebrow. “Same with city hall weddings. I think that like, if you think love has to be public and expensive to be good, you should probably not be getting married.”

“Is that what you wanna do?” Steve asks. “Seriously, I know we haven’t done like, any actual planning, but do you want it to be tiny and simple? ‘Cause you know I’d go to city hall with you tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, no,” Bucky says. “No, I always like to rub our relationship in everyone’s faces. It’s just that we’ll do it very tastefully.”

Steve snorts. “Got it.” They smile at each other in the tired kitchen light. “I’m glad you said that. Like, if you’d wanted something really lowkey I would’ve gone along, but I think we’ve earned the right to indulge at least a little bit in something fun.”

Bucky pushes on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Agreed.” They are contentedly quiet for a minute, and then Bucky says, “I think we should get married outside.” He sounds almost shy. It may be the first that they’ve discussed this without irony and smirking. Even in happiness, even in a life that cradles you, the future can still seem flimsy and glittery as a hologram, empty when it is reached out to.

Steve grins. “What season, though? Summer or spring, right?”

“Summer or spring,” Bucky agrees. “But I guess that means more than a year from now.” Steve fake pouts, and it makes Bucky laugh.

Bucky kisses him, hands still a little sudsy on the side of Steve’s face. Steve stumbles back half a step, surprised at the fervor in it. He kisses Bucky back, placing a hand on his waist. It is easy to know what Bucky wants from a kiss, and this, surging in so hard and fast it’s almost clumsy, their limbs pressing up against one another, is the rarest, the most tenacious of all the ways Bucky kisses Steve. Even so, he will not escalate it the way he might once have, so they kiss in the kitchen, their bodies close, wary of moving too fast.

“C’mere,” Bucky says between kisses, smiling. He wipes the dampness off of his hands onto Steve’s shirt, giggling when Steve scoffs at him, but he kisses Bucky on the cheek and follows him, the dishes half clean and forgotten.

The bedroom door is shut behind them, the animals firmly kept away from anything explicit. They giggle at each other, kissing in the dark, and they are once again teenagers stealing kisses in quiet bedrooms with parents to worry about, raptured by the privilege of touching one another. 

They get as far as stripping to boxers. Bucky does not stop Steve while he tugs off his own shirt or when he places one hand in the small of his back and kisses him so hard they both go a little breathless, even when Steve asks if he’s alright. His smaller hands cup Steve’s face, tightening when Steve lays him carefully on his back, not until Steve puts his hand between Bucky’s legs and his body goes rigid.

“Stop,” he says, but he says it so softly and breathily that Steve can’t quite make it out and instead of stopping, he pauses and breathes, “Hm, angel?”

“Stop,” Bucky says loudly now, and he starts to tremble, shoving at Steve’s arms. “No, please, _please_.”

Steve backs off, clamoring to the side to give Bucky space. Bucky, looking small and wan in only boxers in the dark, rocks to his knees and presses his hands over his face, drawing a breath that shakes his whole body. “Stop,” he’s still whispering, “stop, stop—”

“Buck,” Steve says, so softly. “Bucky, I’m here, it’s just me. I stopped, baby. I’m not gonna touch you.” He is aware of the power imbalance, the fact that he is still in sweatpants, so he stands, hands Bucky his tee shirt, opens the door, and calls Penny. She comes like she had been on standby, bounding past Steve and into bed with Bucky, where she burrows up to him.

Steve swallows hard. Bucky takes his hands off of his face and places them instead on his knees, his body taut, like he is trying to steel himself into the moment. Steve keeps his distance, hovering anxiously by the door, keeping space. This is hardly new, but it has been a long time since it has happened at this level of extremity. Bucky shudders, then wraps his arms around himself and squeezes, a movement Steve has come to understand as something like trying to fit himself back into his own body. He lifts his chin, finally, and he is pale and looks utterly exhausted but his eyes are clear.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t—sorry.”

Steve shakes his head. “You alright?” He settles at the bottom corner of the bed, smoothing his hand over the comforter. Bucky nods, then puts his head in his hands and begins to sob like he has not since last week’s news. Steve feels sick with grief for him. He reaches out and Bucky buries himself in his arms and holds onto him while he cries, letting Steve rock him and kiss his hair, grateful that Steve does not try to talk about it, just lets him be.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says quietly. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

So they don’t have sex, or anything close. They lie together while Bucky catches his breath, and then they make hot chocolate and rent an action movie with Leonardo Dicaprio. Bucky falls asleep within an hour, his head in Steve’s lap. He is not trembling or whimpering, so Steve stays with him, stroking his hair and playing a crossword on his phone. His eyes are growing heavy when Bucky stirs a little and buries his face in Steve’s stomach. The tension in his shoulders tells Steve he is awake, and he rubs Bucky’s back.

“Steve?” Bucky whispers.

“Hm?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?” Steve retracts his hand for a moment, then settles it again in Bucky’s hair. “No. No, angel, of course not. Why? Do I seem mad?”

Bucky hesitates, then shakes his head. “I just thought you might be. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, baby.”

“I know.”

The faint roar of wind at the big windows is pleasantly oppressive, like a just too-tight embrace. Bucky slots his fingers between Steve’s. “We’ve been doing good with that stuff. I thought I’d be done with that. With like, freaking out on you.”

“It’s not—it’s not like a relapse, Buck.” Steve’s voice strains with sadness. “It doesn’t mean we aren’t doing good. Having stress around sex this particular week makes, like, a lot of sense.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I guess.” He’s quiet, and Steve scratches the nape of his neck. “You could’ve been a therapist, you know.”

“For all the money we’ve sunk into therapy, I’d hope I picked some stuff up.”

Bucky laughs at that, bright and clear. Steve leans down to kiss his head.

Thank you, Bucky almost says, but he doesn’t because Steve knows and it does not need to be said and when he winds his arms around Steve’s neck it has the same effect as those words.

In the morning, Bucky puts his arms around Steve and kisses his neck. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says softly, and Steve shakes his head and holds him back, relief breaking open in him when Bucky smiles tiredly and kisses him on the mouth. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and begins to cry softly.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers. “It’s okay, Buck. It’s all okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cafelesbian on tumblr!
> 
> Thanks Cia and henry love u both a lot


	7. seven

Sam and Wanda arrive in the evening, reenergized off of long work days with the reprieve of new and beautiful scenery. They don’t make it until after dark, but Bucky made pasta with fresh pesto and saved them enough for big plates that they take gratefully. A bottle of twenty dollar wine that they brought is opened, ice cream is scraped by all four of them from one pint as if they are not four adults renting a house with functioning bowls. There is something so warm about sitting in low light with them, best friends on a weekend trip in a splendid rental house, undeterred from their time together by the fact that it is very late and they are still awake. It is the brief and indescribably happy moment of realizing everything you craved as a child, the freedom and love and warmth that had seemed spectacular and impossible, is now around you and inside you, and it is so nice that Bucky forgets why they are all renting this house on a non-holiday weekend. It is that whichthat Bucky wakes up to, the slight change in the air, the hint of extra warmth that has settled into the house. A moment of perfect clarity about the fortune of his life.

Steve next to him, caught half-asleep. Bucky cuddles back up to him and kisses his nose, endeared by the drowsy little smile it gets. Without opening his eyes, Steve feels the air for a moment until his touches the small of Bucky’s back and pulls him close. His leg hooks between Steve’s, his weight falling mostly on top of Steve, and by then Steve has really woken and squints away sleep.

“Morning,” he says, and smiles. The brush of his big hands along Bucky’s side makes him shiver, but pleasantly, even when he touches bare skin. He kisses Steve once on the lips, clumsy and full, then rolls off of him.

He studies Steve’s face the way he always does in these moments, in search of proof of disappointment at the chasteness of it all. He does not find it. Steve, Bucky is sure, knows better than to anticipate that now.

“Hi.” Bucky tries to smile at his boyfriend ( _fiancé,_ he corrects himself, with a rush of giddiness), but ends up squinting. It is so much brighter in this bedroom than their bedroom at home in the mornings, the sky not grated off by brownstones. Bucky shields his eyes against the light with his hands. 

“Time is it?” asks Steve.

“Nine-thirty.”

Bucky sits up and stretches, blushing a little when he turns back and Steve is grinning, dazzled at him. He brings his arms to wrap around his middle for a moment, instinctive self-consciousness, and Steve sits up and kisses his shoulder. Steve is always so breathless at the elegance of Bucky’s body, the gentle line of muscle from yoga and messing around with Steve’s boxing equipment, the pretty slope of his back and the half-moon that its shadow makes on their sheets. Bucky smiles sleepily at him.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Steve asks him. There is a lovely morning husk to his voice, a gentleness that makes Bucky shiver. He squirms closer and weaves their fingers together, then squeezes.

“‘M okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Steve kisses his knuckles. “They up yet?” Bucky jerks his head in the vague direction of Sam and Wanda’s room.

“I think they’re still in there.”

They both pause, Steve’s hand still cupped around Bucky’s waist. It is nothing pornographic or too explicit, but it’s unmistakable, short, breathless noises and the creaks of a straining bedframe. Steve grins, delighted, at Bucky, who has flushed and covered his face.

“Should I bang on the wall?” Steve stage whispers. Bucky laughs a little. He still looks sheepish, like he maybe is not supposed to be laughing and certainly not hearing, but he doesn’t look unhappy so Steve kisses him on the cheek and says, “We could give them something to listen to back.”

Bucky shakes his head. Steve is joking, mostly. Bucky smiles, but he untangles his legs from around Steve’s waist and puts his hair up, businesslike and hurried, and then says, “C’mon, let’s go downstairs.”

Steve follows. Subtly, he checks on Bucky, who appears perfectly alright. He starts on the pot of coffee and leans happily into Steve when Steve hugs him from behind. Even so, Steve asks him if he needs anything.

“No,” Bucky says. He sounds calm and happy. “Just didn’t want to… hear them. It’s invasive.”

“Gotcha. Me neither.”

Once, some stranger had commented on a picture Steve had posted of him and Bucky that they should release a sex tape, or something along the lines. It had been pervy and invasive and in bad taste, but nothing overly harmful or violent, and Steve had blocked him and forgotten until, some four hours later while they’d been cooking dinner, Bucky had looked up at him and said, “Do people say that stuff to you?”

“What?” Steve asked him.

He flushed then, and turned back to the simmering pot of lentils and mumbled, “You know. Like that comment.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Um. No, not really. Why? Do people say it to you?”

“No,” Bucky said. “It’s just… it makes me feel gross, is all. Like when people used to, um, say that our relationship was like, an arrangement.” Then, quietly, “I, like, don’t want anybody except you to ever think of me in any sexual context, ever.”

It made Steve sad, not the statement itself, but all of the things that had come before it. After the second time they had sex, when Steve had been holding him and running his hands up and down Bucky’s arms and kissing his face, Bucky had looked right at him and whispered, “You, um. You wouldn’t ever want to take videos or pictures, right?” He’d sounded so anxious. Another time, in bed the morning after, Bucky had said, “Hey, um, I don’t know if you talk to your friends about this stuff, but, um, please don’t, like, give them details about us, um, in bed? If that’s okay?”

Steve does now what he had done each of those times. He pulls Bucky into his arms and kisses him on the forehead, and Bucky smiles and closes his eyes and kisses his chin. 

The whole thing sets a small, glass-hard knot of anxiety in Bucky’s chest, the backwash of fear that he is not doing enough, rolling through him like the weak leftover tremors of an earthquake. He swallows hard against this, and fifteen minutes later, Wanda and Sam join them, showered and dressed. “You two enjoy your morning?” Steve says mildly, and Wanda reddens, then they both flip him off, and the anxious weight in his chest eases a bit. He steals a glance at Steve, who is scrambling eggs, and when he touches Steve gently between his shoulders, Steve turns and gives him a look of only warmth.

And the morning is nice. A long, lazy breakfast at a table in a sunlit dining room, two pots of coffee made because none of them want to stand up yet. Later, a walk in pretty woods, a thrill in the frost, Penny off leash and curiously sniffing at whatever traces forest animals left behind, iPhone photoshoots at picturesque spots because whatever they are going through, they are still end of the generation millennials. Later in the afternoon, Sam suggests brownies, and Wanda asks if they can go to the supermarket so she can get toiletries and cat food in bulk the way no New York City grocery store ever offers, so they make a short list of things to bring back and Bucky and Wanda take the car.

Bucky drives them, since Wanda does not drive ever, has never even gotten her license. She plays 2000s hits and reads directions off of her phone and it takes them about fifteen minutes to arrive.

“I love supermarkets,” Wanda tells him as they walk in, hands swinging obnoxiously between them for a moment until they retrieve a cart.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Since I never go into them except when I’m on vacation, it’s always like a little adventure.”

They get the brownie mix they came for, and avocados, and three different brands of chips, and a six pack of Oranginas, and some bulk containers of paper towels and cat litter and other necessities that are cheaper and easier to transport home than in New York. They are in line to check out when Bucky sees him. Pierce bends over his own cart, face turned mostly away from Bucky so he only views a sliver of his face and then his back, graying blonde hair cropped above the color of a blue sweater.

Bucky is still and then he turns, the only solid understanding being to flee, to get as far away from him as possible. He is sick with the need to run, but it is too angular and bright and the colors of hundreds of brand name snacks run together and he is pressed against a shelf when Wanda gets to him.

“Buck,” she says, and cups his chin. Her hands are soft and cool. “Hey, babe. It’s alright. You’re okay, you’re safe.” She does not know what he had seen, but she is still there, patient and calm, bringing him back to himself even when he does not want to be brought back.

“No, he—I—it’s _him_ —” Wildly, Bucky turns back, his body taut, prepared for the violence of just seeing him. He is not there. “He was just—” Bucky stares, and the guy turns. He braces himself and then feels limp and useless, like a stamped out flame. He is only an old man in a fucking collared shirt, handing his granddaughter a donut, looking nothing like Pierce. “I—he was—I thought—”

“Baby,” Wanda says, “he’s not here, honey. He’s in jail, okay?”

Bucky presses his hand against his chest as if he is trying to keep his heart in place. Wanda reaches and closes her fingers around it, squeezing gently. “It’s okay,” she repeats. “Really, babe. It’s okay.”

Bucky turns his head, frantically; a few people have glanced over in concern or discomfort, but most have moved on. Their cart stands alone, abandoned, angled into a shelf of cereals from when Bucky pushed it away. He closes his eyes and exhales, then squeezes Wanda’s hand back.

“Okay, baby?” she asks him. He nods. He feels paper thin and exposed. “C’mon, let’s pay.”

She does a seamless job of getting them out and into the car, because he feels on autopilot. He does not really register his motion until he is putting the gear into neutral and Wanda places her hand over the clutch and stops him.

“Bucky, don’t start the car.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she adds, “Babe, just breathe a second. Please.” Gingerly, she touches his wrist and feels the tremor still running through him. “It’s alright. Just take a breath.”

Too weak to argue, he does. It is going to rain soon. A damp gray monochrome washes over everything, the world quivering in preparation for a storm. Wanda folds her hand around his and he allows her to, grateful.

“I’d offer to drive, but, you know.” He nods. She does not have her license. “My therapist says I should get comfortable with driving.” She huffs out a little laugh. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” Bucky tells her instantly. She smiles wanly at him, then reaches across the passenger seat and takes his hand. Bucky squeezes, and they sit there quietly, peaceful rain beginning to come down. Bucky recalibrates himself, gets his breathing back to something steady.

“I really… I really thought it was him.” Bucky finally says faintly. A headache rushes in. “God. Fuck.”

“It’s okay, babe,” Wanda tells him, right away.

Bucky shakes his head. He is exhausted, and he feels he could give up as easily as he ever has. “No, it’s not, Wanda. I feel like I’m going fucking crazy. That guy looked nothing like him.”

Wanda moves her hand to the back of Bucky’s neck and rubs in small circles, her hand dipping between his shoulder blades when he exhales. There is a tragic familiarity, sort of, Wanda rubbing Bucky’s back while he shivers and cries about Alexander Pierce, but also not at all, because they are safe, safe at the very moment in this car and safe in their lives, when they drive home to a big house in the middle of nowhere with people they trust. Bucky counts the seconds between his exhalations.

“Sorry,” he finally whispers, “I feel like such an idiot.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wanda says, but there is only warmth to it. “Buck, you’re dealing with so much right now. Okay? I’m always here for you, and so’s Steve, and Sam, and Nat, and a bunch of riled up people on Twitter who are ready to throw bricks through his window if he got out, which he won’t.” Bucky chokes out a laugh. “Seriously, baby. It’s okay. You’re gonna be alright. But it’s okay to have a little bit of a meltdown about this right now.”

The rain has grown torrential, a downpour of pressured water out of a light gray sky, so the effect is like standing on the inside of a waterfall and looking out. She will not say it, but Bucky knows Wanda will want to wait until it stops to start driving anyway, so he tilts his head back against the seat and says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you, um. Do you think this makes me a bad person?”

“What?”

Bucky rolls his shoulders back. “Not, like. I know like, you don’t think I’m a bad person. But like. If you weren’t my best friend, and you knew this whole fucking story, or whatever, and you heard about this twenty-five year old fighting the medical parole for this guy who—who really abused him but also, like, is in his seventies dying of cancer, would you think that was an awful thing to do.” He ends on an exhale, so it is not a question.

“You’re twenty-four,” Wanda says, very quietly, and smiles.

“Shut up,” Bucky says, with no malice. “Less than a week ‘till my birthday.”

She smiles at him, lovely and warm and a little bit sad. “Buck, I’d never think you were a bad person. Ever.” She raps her fingers lightly against the gear, skimming his knuckles. “You’re so fucking brave. I don’t—I’d never judge any choice you make, ‘cause it’s your decision, but if you’d decided not to try to fight this, I would’ve been angry.”

This surprises Bucky. “Really?” He turns to her, and her face is not hard, just set and thoughtful. 

“Not at you, obviously. Just at—fuck, these guys like him, these piece of shit, silver spoon, insane fucking monsters are just—they all deserve to get strangled with their own intestines, and I just—god, it sometimes feels like almost everyone I love has been used by men like him, and me, too, but” —She slows then, closing her eyes for a moment and composing herself— “you are like. I love you, Buck, you’re my best friend, and it’s like… to have seen, um. To have been there, when he was…” She swallows the rest of that sentence, suddenly embarrassed.

“What?” Bucky whispers. She lifts her gaze, her eyes full of caution. “It’s okay.”

Wanda says quietly, “I just mean, the way it was to… to see you during that time. Just so, so terrified and hurt and… I mean, I don’t know how much you remember of being home with me and Scott, but once you… you looked at me and you asked, ‘Are things real right now?’ And I had no idea what you meant and then I, um, I realized that you were so—just in so much pain that you didn’t know how much of life was real and what was, I don’t know, not? I guess? Fuck. So baby, there is nothing you could do to him that he wouldn’t deserve. Even if you were pumping cancer into him.”

Bucky is a little startled by the fierceness in her voice. Swept up in the fervor of rage-tinted love, he does not respond, just leans across the gap in the seat to put his arms around her. He feels heavy, but with clean, maybe healthy grief. It scares him to think back on that time. Sometimes, he manages to convince himself, not quite that it wasn’t bad, but that he had handled it, it had been a terrible thing that happened to him but he took it, but then he is reminded of the raggedness of those months, memories that shimmered like broken glass or horrible scar tissue. He remembers how in that time, it would sometimes take him minutes to remember whether the bruising on his neck had been from Pierce or from someone else, because he just didn’t know what day it was and when the next time he had to see Alexander would be. He remembers waking from nightmares, clutching his throat, truly unable to tell whether it had been a dream until Scott or Wanda shook him out of it.

He shivers, then closes his eyes. His best friend’s hand gentle against his back, the welcome, familiar strawberry smell of her hair, comfort tinted with anger and sadness and fear, bittersweet as dark coffee, and outside, the last mist of a rainstorm. 

He drives carefully home. In the gravel driveway, Bucky turns the car off and he and Wanda look at one another with worn smiles.

“Hey, um—” He coughs a bit. “Don’t… don’t tell them right now, please?”

“Sure,” Wanda agrees easily. “I love you, Buck.”

“I love you, too,” Bucky tells her. Then they unload heavy plastic bags and go inside, where a night of treasured uneventfulness waits for them.

***

Steve wakes up around three, the bed empty except for Alpine. He stirs, rubs his eyes and rises, acting more on instinct than any conscious concern. They had all gone to bed a few hours ago, a quiet night, a simple pasta dish and an action movie on the house’s projector. Bucky had seemed wiped out, even more so than the last few days, falling asleep halfway through the film with his head in Steve’s lap.

Steve’s brain rouses enough to register that Bucky may not be okay, and he moves faster then. The house is dark, and his phone flashlight throws unnerving shadows down the long staircase. On the ground floor, there is one spot of brightness coming not from a lamp but from the fireplace, the room dramatic and rugged in the orange light. Bucky is sitting cross legged on a big cushion in front of the fire, Penny asleep with her head on his knee, laptop open. He smiles when Steve appears in the doorway.

“Hi,” Bucky says quietly.

“Hey,” Steve says. He crosses the room to him and sits. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dream?” Steve lays a hand high on his back and rubs.

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah.”

“What are you doing?”

He tilts the laptop towards Steve and smiles. A dreamy photo of a green field full of pine trees and flower arrangements and a gazebo beside a pond. “Just looking.”

“Without me?” Steve puts his arm over Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky leans happily into him. A log in the fireplace collapses and gasps out a shower of sparks.

“I don’t like this one, anyway. It’s a country club and it’s got a golf course.”

“You don’t want to go golfing after we get married? Buck, we might have to reconsider this.”

Bucky snorts. Then he nuzzles lightly into Steve’s neck, the butterfly-soft brush of his eyelashes sending a tender thrill up in Steve’s chest. He kisses Bucky on the hair.

“It makes me feel better to think about this,” Bucky says. “Or, like, not better. But it’s a good distraction. And it reminds me that, like, we have a future no matter what.”

“We do,” Steve whispers. “A beautiful future.” 

Bucky smiles at this, a tiny acknowledgement, or agreement. Then his face becomes still and crestfallen.

“What if he does get out?” Bucky says, his voice very small.

“He won’t get—”

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. “He might.” The fire is almost gone, and Bucky’s face is lit only by the empty computer glow. Steve pushes a strand of hair back for him, his fingers moving gently over Bucky’s cheek. “He might,” Bucky says again, a fracture in his voice. “He—He—He couldn’t get to us right? There are—there are restraining orders and conditions of release and things that—he’d have to leave us alone, right?”

“Yeah, baby,” Steve says, very gently. “But I—I don’t think it’s going to come to that.”

Bucky nods. His eyes flutter closed, and he looks so pale he almost seems translucent. “I’m so fucking scared, Steve.”

“I know, love,” Steve whispers, “I know. It’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay.” Bucky curls towards him so they clutch one another, fit tight against each other, and they do not kiss or do anything else but hold onto each other.

“This…” Bucky begins, and then swallows hard. “This is, um. I wanted this to just, like, be a thing that I could deal with and move on from, but I—it’s fucking me up so much. I don’t, um. I don’t know what to do if—” He stops, then shakes his head, as if the thought is too awful to even let linger. “I don’t want to backslide, though, Steve, and I don’t—I just want to be strong, through this, but I don’t know if I can be.” He finishes with a tremor of a breath. His head is tucked into the crook of Steve’s neck, but Steve can feel the way his expression squeezes in agony.

Steve shushes him, his fingers moving along the back of Bucky’s neck. “Baby, you don’t have to… to squeeze yourself together until it all becomes too much and you can’t carry it all, okay, baby? This is scary and sudden and out of the left fucking field and having an emotional reaction doesn’t mean you’re backsliding baby, it means you’re a human being. And you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met in my life, and any reaction you have right now doesn’t change that.”

Bucky scratches his fingers in the gentlest circle over Steve’s elbow. “I freaked out in the store today,” he whispers, “‘cause I thought I saw him. As if I didn’t know he was in jail still. I just… I’m better, I thought. I hadn’t done anything like that in so long.” He winces, then lifts his gaze, and Steve realizes that Bucky is waiting to be forgiven or not. Steve asks, quietly, if he’s alright. “Yeah,” Bucky mumbles. “It just—it was fucking embarrassing.”

Steve does not argue, because he knows Bucky won’t accept it right now. Instead, he says quietly, “Bucky. You always try to carry so much.” Bucky makes a soft noise, not quite acknowledgement, but not protest. “This is an unbelievably stressful, sudden thing. Give yourself a break, baby.”

Some of the tension falls away, Bucky’s shoulders slumping. Steve keeps running his thumb up and down the side of Bucky’s arm, over the crook of his elbow, letting Bucky fall against him. If it will comfort Bucky, he’d be happy to sit there with him forever, their world confined to what is lit bronze by the dwindling fire, but Bucky grows heavier in his arms and Steve doesn’t want him to fall asleep sitting up, so he kisses the side of his head and says, “Hey angel, let’s go up to bed, yeah?”

“’Kay.”

Steve prods out the fire, the last flecks of gold rising and going out in a flourish, then pulls Bucky to his feet. In bed, Bucky sighs against Steve’s neck, a tiny expression of such vulnerability and trust that Steve goes a little weak at his core.

“Stevie?”

Already, Steve feels abandoned to the current of exhaustion, but he says, “Yeah, baby?”

“Do you still wanna marry me?”

Steve props himself up a little and blinks. He can’t see well in the darkness, just shards of moonlight in Bucky’s eyes and the tranquil movement of shadows over his face when trees outside are rustled. He touches Bucky’s cheek, his thumb brushing upward towards the divet of a scar that is almost impossible to see but that Steve knows the shape of, disappearing into his hairline. “Bucky, are you serious?”

He shrugs, and even in the grayscale monochrome two am light, the anxiety on his face is obvious. “Yeah. I mean, I know you like, love me, and want to be with me, but, um. It’d be okay if like, all this shit made you want to slow down or reconsider it or whatever.”

Not often, but sometimes, the Bucky that Steve has grown accustomed to spending every day with flickers and something shines through, vulnerability that equates not quite to terror, not quite to submissiveness, but something younger and in pieces, and Steve is reminded of Bucky five years ago, convinced of a threat at every corner. Steve pushes a lock of hair back for him and then moves in and kisses him on the forehead.

“I don’t want that, baby,” Steve promises him. “Really. I’d get married to you tomorrow.” A smile ghosts across Bucky’s face, and he breathes out. “Is that—that’s still what you want, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, very softly. “I just… I want you to know what you’re getting into, is all.”

“Don’t insult me,” Steve says. Bucky huffs out a tired laugh, and Steve thumbs along his jawline. “Buck. I know you. That’s why I wanna marry you.”

There is no skepticism in Bucky’s voice when he whispers, “Okay.” Steve kisses him on the temple, and Bucky stops him from pulling away with a hand at the back of his head, a kiss as crushing and delicate as pressing flowers.

***

Two important emails await Bucky the next morning.

He reads them on his phone in bed, still tucked into Steve’s side. Buttery morning light falls through the window and over them, so much brighter than the city that it feels like waking underwater, or on another planet. 

The first is from the board of corrections, telling him that the trial date is January 23rd. “You’re kidding,” Steve says weakly.

“My birthday,” Bucky says dully. Then, swallowing hard, “Do you think that he knows that?”

Steve pulls him closer and kisses the top of his head. “No,” he says, and he means it. Then, very softly, “Buck, you don’t wanna go, right?”

“To the hearing?”

Steve nods. Bucky reaches up and rubs his eyes.

“No,” he says quietly. “Do you… do you think that I should?”

Steve moves his fingers over the line of Bucky’s nose. “It’s up to you, baby,” Steve says. “But if you’re asking me, no, I don’t think so. I just don’t think there’s anything to be gained from being there, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. Steve supports him always, and he would not have expected anything different, Steve trying to sway him into doing something he is not comfortable with, but relief breaks open in him anyway at being told he’s doing the right thing.

Steve folds his arms around Bucky and Bucky gives himself to Steve, and it always sort of awes him that the very thing that shattered him can be the greatest thing of comfort, a man’s body wrapped around him, a man’s hands on his face and back and in his hair. He burrows into Steve, subconsciously rubbing his chin into Steve’s shoulder like a cat, smiling when Steve laughs at him and kisses him again on the hair.

“We should do something fun on your birthday,” Steve says. “‘Cause it’s your birthday, obviously. But also to not have to be thinking about this.”

Bucky smiles. “Okay.”

The other one is from Christine Everhart, whose name does not register until Bucky reads her email.

_Hi Mr. Barnes,_

_I know that last time we spoke, you told me you were not interested in being part of this piece. Normally, I wouldn’t try to change your mind, especially on such a sensitive topic, but I have been following the recent developments in the case and I wanted to reach out and see if that had changed your decision in anyway. If you had anything you wanted to say, publicly, I think it would be incredibly valuable to this piece. Furthermore, due to said current case developments, my editor and I have spoken and decided that it would be in the best interest of readers and those close to the case to expedite the publication process to before the hearing. This decision was made based on conversations I had with other victims for this piece, who expressed their own anxiety about the potential for a release. If there is anything that you may want to make known before the hearing begins, this might be an opportune place to do so. I would be extremely interested in hearing anything you have to say._

_Please do let me know if you care to talk, but again, no pressure. Wishing you the best of luck in this upcoming week._

_Best,  
Christine Everhart_

Bucky, filled with indescribable exhaustion, clicks off his phone and rolls back into Steve. He closes his eyes until the darkness takes on a pulsing quality, like a monochrome kaleidoscope, and does not open them until Steve nudges him gently in the ribs.

“Hey, angel,” Steve says quietly. “You don’t have to talk to her, babe.”

“I know,” Bucky says. And he does. But it is the distress of weighing a short term agony with the good it might bring forth. He swings his legs off of the bed and bends forward, balancing his head on his forehead. Steve moves in and touches him lightly on his back. “But it might help.”

“That’s not your job,” Steve tells him.

Bucky nods absently. He knows really, it is not his job, but it is an expectation that he had not anticipated when he walked into the police precinct to bring this against a man as famous as Alexander, that has compounded on itself since his name became recognizable outside of true crime stories. The messages he has gotten from reporters wanting statements on Pierce in the last week and a half have proved that, that people think because they know his story they are entitled to his every opinion on the things that happen to him, packaged nicely and cleverly. He bites his thumbnail.

“Steve?” he says softly. “I’m just—I’m getting really scared. And I want, um, I think maybe this would be a dumb thing not to do.” He thinks of everything the way people trying to dismiss him would. He thinks of the lawyer in court smiling at the judge, saying Bucky Barnes didn’t even care enough to make a statement in a major article about her client, so how can he claim that his release would be traumatic. “I just… I feel like it might help.”

Steve, carefully, says, “I just want you to feel safe and okay, baby.”

Bucky leans into him, eyes closed. “I do,” he says quietly. “I do. I think, um. I think I’ll see what she says.”

So he does.

It is only for half an hour, and she makes it easy by giving him questions that he really only has one answer to. She does not ask for any descriptions or reflections on the abuse; Bucky supposes he is beyond that, at this point, if she wants it she can read any article or the Wikipedia page. Instead, she asks if she thinks things would have been different today, bringing those allegations forward to a world that no, does not protect sexual assault survivors, but has at least begun to accomodate them in some forms. She asks him what he wants to say about the resurgence of this case in recent weeks. Bucky does not like the sound of his voice as he answers her, or the stilted, afraid quality to the words that he cannot untangle, but at the end she tells him that it was great and thanks him profusely for talking to her. She tells him that she’s going to drink a few cups of coffee and probably work through the night to get it ready so it can be out in two or three days, before the hearing.

“Um, Christine?” Bucky has had the dangerous sensation that he is somewhere else for this whole call. It was his voice, but he could not identify where he was pulling the words from or why they were relevant, but he is aware now that it’s almost over.

“Yeah?”

“I was just… I was wondering, um, if you could tell me how many other people you’ve spoken to for this.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ve been in touch with twelve other victims. Six of them agreed to be quoted in the article.”

Twelve. Bucky feels very dizzy. It no longer brings that terrible catharsis, the unforgivable relief that washed over him when he learned the first time that there was at least one other person. He just feels grim and awful, like learning that someone you knew long ago died suddenly.

“Okay,” Bucky says hoarsely. “Okay, thanks.”

Christine hesitates for a moment. “This is probably pretty unprofessional to say, but that man’s a pig.” Bucky huffs out a surprised not quite laugh. “Sorry,” she adds hastily. “Anyway. You know how to get in touch if you need anything else. I loved your book, by the way. And congrats on getting engaged.”

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers, gratified. 

She says goodbye again and then she hangs up. Bucky sits for several minutes on the couch, his arms wrapped around himself, breathing. Steve raps softly on the door and Bucky tells him, voice small, to come in, and Steve approaches him very cautiously and kisses the top of his head, and then, when Bucky squeezes him on the wrist, sinks in beside him on the couch and opens his arms. 

“How was she?” Steve asks him softly.

“She was, um. She was nice. She seems smart.” A loose thread unspools from his hoodie, and he winds it around his finger and pulls it free.

“Yeah?” 

“I just. Um.” Bucky can feel anxiety whirling alive in his chest, gathering speed like a car rolling too fast. His breathing becomes short and panicky, and Penny straightens up, paws on his knees, moving close. He touches her, and Steve steadies his hand on Bucky’s back.

“It’s okay,” he says, soft and even. “It’s alright, baby. Just breathe, there you go.” 

Bucky, squeezing his eyes shut, nods. Shakily, he begins again, “I don’t know, I just—it was fine, she was nice and it’s not like she asked me anything, like, whatever. Intrusive. But I just feel so—I don’t—” He presses his hand against his ribs, feeling the proof of his breath. “It’s not something I wanted, you know? Like, I don’t want to be interviewed about this, or quoted and I—” He breaks off. He doesn’t know how to say it without colossal selfishness, but what he wants to say is that he is so disgusted by the need for trauma to be laid raw and bare in order to be taken seriously. That even for someone like him, with money and a safe home and a respectable job and a very public trauma that, besides people who are committed to being cruel, is largely regarded as credible, the odds are so stacked against victims that five years later, he is having to come up with new ways to prove his pain. He whispers, instead, “It feels like this will never end.”

Steve says, “I know, baby. I know. I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky huddles even closer against Steve, like he is trying to crawl inside his ribcage. “I just want this to be done,” he whispers.

“It’s gonna end,” Steve says. He kisses Bucky’s hair. “In less than a week, you’re gonna be done with the waiting, and whatever it is, you’re gonna be safe, and we are gonna celebrate you, and we’re gonna plan our wedding, and you’re gonna do readings that I’m gonna come to and cheer so loudly that people get annoyed with me, and we’re gonna plan where we should go this summer, and things will settle again. I promise you. You just gotta hold onto the boat for a little bit, baby. And I’m right here with you, I’ve got you.”

It is a gift, nothing short of a miracle, the way Steve is always there to give him what he needs even though Bucky is giving him nothing. Steve, smoothing down his ridges of terror like bumps in clay so that Bucky can step back and realize the darkness that still settles sometimes, looking eternal, is a hitch, and it will pass no matter how badly he believes it won’t. He swallows this gratitude because it cannot fit into any words that he could form and kisses Steve lightly on the collar bone. Bucky stays there, head tucked into the crook of Steve’s neck, for some minutes more. Wanda knocks gently, then Sam, and he waves them in and they tuck into the crescent of comfort, Wanda behind Bucky, her hand on his back, Sam leaning on a cushion on the floor, knocking his foot lightly into Bucky’s ankle. That Bucky has ever felt anything but astonishing safety around any of them is beyond him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it says 10 chapters but it may be more like 12....anyway love u all especially claire <3 cafelesbian on tumblr


	8. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is some happiness

**Decades of abuse: How former Fortune 500 CEO Alexander Pierce got away with more than what was made public about him**

**By Christine Everhart  
January 18, 2017**

_Forty-eight years ago, before he was a hedge fund manager or the CEO of Principle Trust Bank and long before he was a convicted rapist and attempted murderer, Alexander Pierce attended Georgetown University. He attended a party with a woman who, for privacy reasons, will be called Kelly. One night, he walked her home from a party, followed her into her dorm, and raped her._

_Kelly’s is the first, chronologically, in very similar stories I was told over the three months I spent writing this piece. Eight other people I spoke to, three women and five men, told similar stories. The details change: hotel rooms or offices after hours or the back of company cars while a driver stepped out to smoke. Out of these nine allegations, seven of them—not including Pierce’s conviction for sexual abuse with a controlled substance—report being drugged. In every case, they report violent assault. And in every case, save for two, one of them being Bucky Barnes’ testimony from 2013, hours or days later, the arrival of an NDA._

_This was not the case with every single victim, nor was the document signed every time. The majority of the time, however, it went like this: days or weeks after the fact, a representative for Pierce would show up. Some witnesses remember Arnim Zola, and others say it was a different man who they cannot identify but would recognize. They were presented with the NDA and asked, at first politely, to sign it._

_For three of the nine people I spoke to, it ends here. “I was terrified of him,” Emma ( recollected. “I’m twenty-five, I’m alone in my living room with this smarmy guy in a suit asking me to ‘keep whatever I think happened under wraps.’ And I hesitated, and he said, basically, if you don’t I’ll make your life very difficult. So I did.”_

_Two other victims, one man and one woman, had hired lawyers. It’s worth noting that these two were both higher up employees of Pierce, not executives, but long-term employees with benefits and six-figure paychecks, as John put it. He says he hired a lawyer with the attempt to press charges, and instead settled for a five-hundred thousand dollar payout. Two women, who requested not to be named, did not settle._

_The story here is not, “Is Alexander Pierce a rapist,” or even, “How many people did he really abuse prior to and over a four decade career.” The truth is, Alexander Pierce is just a name, substitutable for any number of men like him. I have seen him referred to as a success story, both of the justice system and of our collective societal response to rape: here was a wealthy, respected, semi-famous man, and then, after credible allegations and an investigation taken seriously by its detectives and a fair trial, he faced consequences. He has been referenced more and more, as more stories of sexual misconduct from powerful men are made public, as the template for how these allegations should be handled. This is a gross misremembering of the 2015 case. Bucky Barnes, who was 21 at the time, faced the same vitriol tabloid abuse that Pierce employed against previous victims for refusing to sign NDAs, a tactic that can only be called witness intimidation, though it was not treated as such. Despite indication otherwise that would infamously be proven by Pierce’s violent and nearly tragic response to the trajectory of the court case, Pierce was given a bail of one hundred thousand dollars. He appeared thirteen times on various newscasts to discuss the case. It was, at the time, one of the most public and high profile sexual assault cases ever._

_During my interviews, I asked if they thought about coming forward in 2015, when public allegations were first made by Bucky Barnes, explanations varied, but the conclusion was almost unanimous: yes, they wished they could have, no, they had no doubt that the abuse that Pierce would later be convicted over was real, but they were frightened. “It wasn’t just the NDAs,” Mack told me, “but yeah, you know. I didn’t have millions to give him in a lawsuit. He’s a scary guy.”_

_Emma told me the same thing. “I told my sister a few months after it happened, and even then, I thought, like, ‘oh my god he’s going to know and take everything from us.’ And I was fucking terrified. I installed a security system. So no, I wasn’t ready to suddenly take things public when I felt like I was finally moving on with my life. But I wish I could’ve.”_

_John told me, “I actually took off of work one day that week and sat in the back to watch. It was like, real reporters and tabloid reporters and me all crammed into this bench. It was, uh, the day the kid testified. It was stupid to go. I wanted to see if he’d recognize me.”_

That is as far as Bucky makes it, although there are several more pages of what is probably Pulitzer level reporting and he has not read any of his quotes. Just as well. He had not been prepared for this roiling anxiety, leaving him shaky as if it were withdrawal. He only skims it, but reading his own words, a reflection of abuse that until now when his hand was forced (although even that, Bucky thinks, may be bullshit, he _chose_ to speak to Everhart, to write a letter, to choose a career that put his name and speculations about his past back in a semi-public place) is destabilizing, like staring at your own reflection while drunk. It’s that and it’s the agony of each of these stories, all of this terror and pain that feels ridiculously and maybe selfishly linked to Bucky, almost like the way twins can supposedly feel each other’s pain even miles away. He swallows hard and finds his whole body chattering.

The article has been published, a little haphazardly, on a weeknight. Bucky knows the intention is to get it public and out there as early as possible before the hearing, and he appreciates that, or at least he knows he should, but it is hard to when he feels—selfishly, irrationally—like he has been given a responsibility he doesn’t want. 

He needs some air and he thinks that the cold may stun him out of this ache, so he tells Steve he is going to step outside and he does. The darkness spills around him, enormous, the world confined to however many yards of the short road are visible from the feeble porchlight. Bucky hugs his arms around himself like he is trying to hold himself together, and then he doesn’t need to because Penny twines around his legs and Steve comes after him, wrapping his arms around Bucky from behind. The position awkward, and Bucky presses his face into Steve’s neck. He does not cry. He breathes and trembles so hard he is impervious to the chill, and Steve kisses all of his face that he can reach.

“It’s okay, baby,” he says. “What hit you?”

Bucky shakes his head. He does not know how to describe all of it, so he whispers, “Overwhelmed.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees sadly. “I know. I’ve got you.”

Bucky turns himself half a circle so he can be properly held by Steve. “I just… all those people, and he—he just did it, for so long.” There are too many thoughts, none of them fully formed but all of them at their full, heart-racketing anxiety. The sickening knowledge that if any of them had been listened to, then he may have been spared. Grief for himself, twenty years old and petrified, something he has experienced before but never so sharp and concentrated. The disgust, however hard he has to fight it, at knowing that in a way, he was lower than all of them; he put himself in front of Pierce with the intention to do exactly what Pierce had asked of him and yes, he had been abused and raped, yes, he had said no again and again, but he could not say he was surprised when it happened, and here were twelve other people who had faced this truly blamelessly, and he cannot scrape away the conviction that he doesn’t belong in the same category as them. He was not even worth the hassle of an NDA, Bucky thinks, and then hates himself for thinking that, like that tactic to silence would ever have been fucking validating, like the only person who could measure his victimhood would be the one hurting him. The painful conjoining of himself today with himself back then, a tether that he lives without because if he lived with it all the time, it would hurt too much, but some days he feels like five years have not passed at all and he never got better at all and he knows this is not true even right now, knows that tomorrow he will wake up and this fear will have softened on the edges and the loveliness of his life will be clear as everything, but he is so frightened and sicked that right now all he feels is dirty.

He takes a hard breath. Steve’s arms are grounding and comforting as a lullaby. Above them, the tapestry of stars, billowing over them like a dark sheet over two children. 

“I didn’t know—” Bucky begins, and then takes a ragged breath— “I didn’t know it would make me feel that bad to read.”

“I know,” Steve says, very gently. “I know, baby.”

Bucky wraps his arms around his middle and squeezes at the crook of his elbows. He is embarrassed by how unmoored this has made him. If anything, he thinks, he should be—celebrating feels like an inappropriate word, but he certainly should not be upset. This is good for him in relation to this week and good, he hopes, for other victims, or if not good than at least cathartic. He does not know why he feels balanced again on the edge of a razor blade again.

(Later this week, Jennifer will gently remind him, as she has before and will again at other times in his life when ugly things, for whatever less dramatic reasons, begin again to churn in him when they should be placid, that any stress, but especially trauma-related stress, will render him especially vulnerable to these feelings of shame and fear and discomfort. Bucky will think that his past sits in him like layers of sediment under a body of shimmering water. There, inextricable but mostly passive, smoothed down by time and peace, but sometimes stirred up again, poison and grit that gets kicked up at a disturbance, whirled around like the onslaughts of a hurricane until the chaos passes and it settles into its hollowed out place inside him. Bucky knows this well, but it still sometimes slips away from him and he is able to think maybe this time the bitter, dirty layers of the past will stay dormant and unmoved until they have been buried deep enough that nothing could ever kick them up in a flurry of old terrors and miseries. And again, they will settle, fallow, and he will be reminded that this is something he lives with, but it is something that he can live with, as real and in many ways, permanent as his missing arm, but it does not have to steer him, and that will matter more than if he had assumed again that he was fixed.)

Bucky rests his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. It is grounding, to just lean against him. He weaves their fingers together, squeezing weakly, the rings shiny and brassy under the porchlight. He tries very hard to feel certain that this is what’s real, the fact of his and Steve’s life, and nothing could change that, especially not startling articles or prison releases of someone he will never have to see again, and it helps some, but it is not, Bucky knows, a particularly healthy coping mechanism to just pretend that the things distressing him aren’t happening.

“Buck.” Steve’s voice is very soft. “Let’s go inside, babe. It’s freezing.”

Bucky agrees and lets Steve lead him towards the house. In the kitchen, Steve keeps his arm over Bucky, and Bucky can feel himself being watched but it is not invasive, just worried and protective. He pets Penny, then the cats, when they dart across the counter to check out what’s going on.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. He’s looking down, but Steve moves his hand over the small of his back and Bucky knows he is shaking his head. “I just wasn’t ready for that.”

“It’s okay, love,” says Steve.

“I don’t know what to do,” Bucky whispers, “if…” But he does not finish.

Steve kisses the side of his head. “Whatever happens, we’re gonna figure it out,” he tells him, and Bucky feels like a child the way he lets Steve’s reassurances wash over him. “I promise. Whatever we need, whatever you need.”

Bucky nods, dazed. He is very shaky when Steve lets go of him, and is glad that Steve stays close, even in the shower, stripped to boxers, hands moving through Bucky’s hair rhythmically.

“Those mall court weddings,” Bucky says quietly, in bed. He wants to see Steve smile, and he wants to be the cause of it. By then, he has calmed some, but his head feels thick with exhaustion, and he is ready to sleep deeply and dreamlessly.

Steve snorts. “I don’t know if I’m familiar.”

“There are some malls,” Bucky tells him, “that have wedding venues. Which is where we’re gonna get married.”

“Totally.”

“They’re very classy, they’ve got flowers and everything.”

“Mhm, and then we can have our reception at Subway.”

“Obviously.”

They smile at each other. Bucky leans in and kisses him lightly. “I love you, fiancé,” he says and the novelty of it sends a thrill through him.

“I love you too,” says Steve, “Mr. Rogers-Barnes.”

Bucky giggles, delighted. Context is washed in gray, and he feels very normal and very lucky for a moment, a person lying in bed next to the person that, absurdly, he is going to marry, discussing this future, nothing to worry about but the usual stressors of being in his twenties. “Why not Barnes-Rogers?” he asks, not because he actually cares, but because he wants to keep talking about this.

Steve kisses Bucky’s fingertips. “‘Cause I’m older.” He’s teasing. Neither of them care whose name comes first, and eventually, it will be determined with a coin toss, but they are suspended in the same break from the stress of their real life and they want to extend it.

“But my name comes first in the alphabet,” Bucky says.

“Hm,” Steve says.

“And,” says Bucky, “then our kids will be higher up on lists for everything when they go to school.”

“But,” says Steve, “do you want them to grow up thinking they’re special their whole life? All of their teachers are gonna be like, ‘oh, she’s related to that very talented, very, very hot author,’ and then she’s gonna get As even when she doesn’t try and the real world will be a rude awakening.”

Bucky, flushed with laughter, pulls Steve close and nips him lightly on the collarbone. Steve kisses him on the cheek, clumsily, and then on the lips, more seriously. They are twined around each other, kissing, and it would look to anyone else like they’re going to have sex but Bucky knows by now that sex does not work as a stress reliever for him. He has tried, but panic always rushes in faster and hotter than usual and he shoves Steve off of him or snaps at him to stop and he does. So they just kiss, heat trapping itself between them, until Bucky pulls away.

“Sorry,” he whispers, feeling the need to say it.

“For what?”

He shakes his head, then wraps his arms around Steve and sighs. He is kissed on the hair, on the temple, between his eyebrows. 

When he wakes the next morning, he is still flush against Steve, but he is sore and disoriented. He does not remember the nightmare, only that it was frightening, and waking into the bright white light of a winter morning from that feels wrong. Steve is beside him, awake. Bucky rolls over and throws his arm over Steve’s chest and sighs, an ache in his body that won’t be worked out for several hours.

“Hi, you,” Steve says quietly, and kisses his hair. “How are you doing?”

“‘M alright,” Bucky tells him. He is too lethargic to really talk, so he rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in Steve’s chest, comforted by his warmth and solidness. Steve strokes his hair with one hand, lazy and gentle.

“They asked us if we wanna extend the rental into next week.” Steve raises his phone vaguely to indicate that they had done so through email. It makes Bucky smile. “What do you think?”

“What do you think?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yeah, but I wanna know.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s been really nice up here.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. And it has. Even now, loveliness spills over them in the creamy post sunrise, in the peaceful whistle of wind outside.

“But,” Bucky begins, and then stops, because he doesn’t have anything really to say, just a small tug of something indefinable in his chest. Steve raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Do you kinda wanna go home?” Bucky asks Steve quietly. 

Steve smiles at him. “Yeah, I do.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that ‘cause I did?”

“No,” Steve tells him. “I was gonna say the same thing. I mean, I know we came here with the intention of being away from New York during this, but…”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, agreeing with what neither of them can quite put into words: that an escape, refreshing and indulgent and comforting as it is, does not substitute for the absence of the people they are missing, their friend’s quiet company over takeout, care packages and dinner invitations from the older adults in their life. Bucky’s luck is not lost on him.

So they spend that day and leave the next morning, the duration they had originally planned to stay for. In the car, Bucky says to Steve, “Can I ask you for something?”

“Yeah.” Steve takes his eyes briefly off the road and smiles at him. “‘Course. What?”

“A birthday present.”

“Ooh. Absolutely.”

Bucky, adjusting back into his seat so he can cross his legs, says, “Okay. I want a tattoo from you.”

“Are you serious?”

Bucky nods, a little shy. “Yeah.”

“Babe, of course.” Steve grins at him, then nearly misses their exit. “Yes. I would love to. I’m honored you asked me.”

Bucky smiles again, some of the sheepishness falling away. “Really?”

“Mhm. What were you thinking?”

In front of them, the sky the color of margarine, the setting sun making the trees that line the highway swell into something dark and dramatic. “Um. I don’t know, it’s like. I honestly hadn’t thought about that as much as like, I just want it.”

“Fuck, yeah!” Steve says, enthusiasm that is so throwaway that Bucky laughs. “I love it. I will absolutely design your tattoo.”

Bucky glances over. “And do it.”

It takes Steve a moment to understand what he means. “You’re kidding,” he says.

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Buck,” says Steve, “no way.”

“No?”

“I mean—I mean not, _no_ , but why would you want that?”

“I don’t know,” says Bucky, “maybe because I love and trust you and you are maybe the most famous living artist in the world.”

“I’m not a tattoo artist!” Steve protests. This conversation is too absurd to be having on I-95 in the early afternoon, the coffee they drank this morning just beginning to wear off but unable to stop for another several dozen miles unless they want to add twenty minutes to the drive.

“It’s probably similar!”

“Bucky,” says Steve, “it is absolutely not similar.”

Bucky puts his feet on the dashboard. “So you’re saying no?”

Flustered, Steve says, “I’m not—I’m not saying no, I just… why don’t you just let me design it, and find someone who’ll do it who knows how, and I’ll go with you and hold your hand the whole time, I promise.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away, and Steve thinks at first that he’s considering it. Then he says, quietly, “Stevie, I know you’ve never done it, but I mean… I don’t care if some lines are crooked, or whatever. You’re the only one I’d want to do it. I don’t… I don’t want anyone else to see me.”

Steve softens at that. He reaches across the seats and takes Bucky’s hand. He knows it’s useless to argue that point and besides, he does not ever want to try and convince Bucky to do something with his body that he does not want to.

“But a tattoo is permanent,” Steve says, stupidly. 

Bucky scoffs. “Oh, really? I hadn’t known.”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“You already asked me to marry you! What’s more permanent than that?”

Steve laughs at that. It’s romantic enough that they grin at each other, the good-natured confrontation forgotten for the moment. 

“I will think about it,” Steve tells him.

“Don’t think too hard,” says Bucky pleasantly.

***

The next morning, Steve wakes, as he always does, before Bucky. In what he knows is anticipation for this week, he has a knot of fear between his shoulder blades, and it is too cold to run. Instead, he makes himself coffee and sketches at the dining room table, giving the cats kisses on their heads when they brush by him and thinking.

For Bucky’s birthday, Steve bought them tickets to Canada in July, a week long trip along the Alexandra Fjord including several kayak and canoe opportunities to sit in the center of pods of feeding whales. The thing about being very rich is that it has forced them to get creative with gifts, because there is nothing he could get Bucky that Bucky cannot already get himself. Steve still threw in the obligatory cashmere sweater and new running shoes and a pretty glass blown vase, but what he is proudest of is something he’s made that he has been working on for over a month. It’s a thin, bound book of illustrations he did that go along with various scenes from Bucky’s novel. Some of them are Bucky’s favorites and some of them are Steve’s favorites and some of them are lines and images so lovely that Steve had wanted to translate them into something colorful and visible, even though it is more stunning to read then to view. He knows that Bucky loves seeing art inspired by his writing—all writers do, according to Bucky, but Steve had not known that—and Steve has given him that before, quick jots of scenes Bucky lets him read that made him flush with delight. In high school, he’d ask Steve to illustrate assignments for a fiction writing class and show him, smirking, the extra credit marks, not that he’d needed it. But this is a serious gift, and Steve has worked hard on it, and he thinks Bucky will appreciate it. He would have spent less hours on it had he known Bucky would ask him for the tattoo. He would have invested in extensive, professional level tattoo classes. He would have found people to practice on.

Steve is a little astonished at the request, at the trust inherent in it. It is almost more than he can bear, the trust that Bucky is giving him, although, he thinks, is it really more than the trust Bucky gives him every day when he lets Steve put his arms around him or kiss him on the mouth, or when he whispers anxieties and memories against Steve’s chest that luckier people cannot even fathom, or when he lets Steve put his hands and mouth on him in what used to only be violence? It is probably not, he reasons, but the irreversibility of it makes it feel like more than Steve can handle.

But he has never been good at saying no to something that would make Bucky happy, and anyway, it is Bucky’s request. Steve looks at Clover and shrugs, as if he can communicate to her his ambivalence, and in response, she walks across his sketchbook, where he has begun a vague idea.

Bucky comes downstairs shortly, and Steve flips the notebook closed. He wraps his arms around Steve from behind, bending over to kiss Steve’s cheek, and Steve takes his hand and holds him there. Yes, Steve thinks, he will do anything Bucky wants for him.

He broaches it later that night, once they are showered and in bed. Steve brushes his teeth and returns, his hair still damp, to Bucky, under the covers.

“Hey.”

Bucky looks up, smiling. He looks so lovely. His hair is longer than Steve had realized, just past his shoulders, and he’s wearing Steve’s red Henley that is too big on him and doing something on his computer. Steve climbs gracelessly into bed and kisses him.

“Whatcha doing?”

He turns his laptop to Steve. “Hope sent me a really sweet note someone sent her about the book.”

Steve stretches out onto his back. “Will you read it to me?”

“Are you serious?” When Steve raises an eyebrow, Bucky says, “Just read it yourself, weirdo.”

“I don’t want to.”

Bucky sighs dramatically, kicks Steve very lightly on the knee, and then reads it. He’s blushing faintly. He has gotten exponentially, astronomically better about the kinds of things he says about himself, but he does not brag, really, and it makes Steve smile to hear him speaking aloud about how impressive and talented and emotionally adept he is, even if the words are not his. Afterwards, Steve sits up and wraps his arms around him, kisses the side of his head, and says, “All very true.”

“Hm,” Bucky fake grumbles, but Steve knows he’s pleased.

“Question.” Steve pulls back, his hand coming to rest on Bucky’s back.

Bucky nods and sets the laptop aside. “Yeah?” He props his chin on Steve’s shoulder. At the end of the bed, their legs twine together.

Steve, wrapping one arm around Bucky’s shoulder, says, “Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure that it’s okay with you that I might mess up a tattoo that will then be on you forever?”

Bucky’s eyes flash with triumph. “Yes! I mean, try, you know. Not to make it look like shit.” Steve snorts. “Yes, Stevie. I trust you more than anyone.” He leans in for a kiss, and Steve obliges.

“Buck, you know your trust is the most important thing in the world to me, but I think in this case it might be misguided.”

Bucky smiles a little, and lays his hand on Steve’s cheek. “Can I tell you something?” Steve reaches up to touch his hand and nods. “I… you know that, um, I’ve gotten a lot better with this, but, like, _reclaiming_ ” —Bucky rolls his eyes at himself a little— “my body and stuff, uh, it still takes a lot of conscious focus, you know? And… and I think it’d make me feel really good, to have something pretty over some of those scars forever. And Stevie, when I think of like, recovery, and having my own autonomy and stuff again, that stuff is so intrinsically tied to you, too. So it wouldn’t feel right to let anyone else do it.”

Steve finds his voice thick when he says, “Fuck, baby.” Bucky laughs. “Well I definitely can’t say no to that.”

“That’s why I said it,” Bucky says happily. “Having a lot of bad trauma is a really good guilt trip.” 

Steve snorts despite himself and shoves Bucky, lightly. He will joke like this only when he feels entirely comfortable, Steve knows, but he still pulls Bucky back in against his chest and kisses the top of his head.

“And you really want me to design it?” he adds.

“I mean, clear it with me first. But yeah.” Bumping his chin into Steve’s, Bucky adds, “You’re pretty good visually, I’ve heard.”

“And you aren’t asking me to do one of those blind ones though, right?”

“Hm, no. Maybe next time.” Bucky laughs at the glare Steve gives him.

“Smartass,” Steve says. Bucky grins. “You’re lucky I love you. But, um. I did draw something that—that was just my first… idea, but if you don’t like it or it’s like, too much” —Bucky is giving him a strange, amused look— “It’s literally just the first idea I had.”

“You’re such a tease,” Bucky tells him, “you’ve known you were gonna say yes this entire conversation.” Steve, smirking, reaches for his sketchbook and opens it to the design.

He watches Bucky study it, anxious. He knows the drawing itself is nice enough, objectively, but there is a startling vulnerability in offering someone something so permanent. Then Steve glances at the ring on Bucky’s finger, and his, and smiles.

The design is two flowers, a carnation and a larkspur—their respective birth month flowers—twining around each other at the stems, lavish blossoms with their rich leaves twirled around the stems. Bucky presses his fingertips to his lips like he might cry, but when he looks up his face is warm and bright.

“ _Steve_ ,” he says, “it’s gorgeous. It’s perfect.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause… ‘cause it’s our birth flowers together, but if you didn’t want, like, a couple-y tattoo I can totally do something—” Then Bucky kisses him, laughing, with such enthusiasm that they both fumble into lying down.

“It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I want,” Bucky tells him. Steve brushes a strand of hair back and kisses his nose.

Bucky feels suddenly choked up with emotion. He doesn’t know how to put into words that after all the brutality his body has endured, having something so beautiful gifted to it permanently by Steve will be like watching plants spring up over burnt earth, and whatever imperfections it may contain are more proof of what Steve is doing to him, letting beauty overtake pain.

“Hey,” Steve says, “Hey, you okay? Don’t cry! I promise I won’t fuck it up too bad!”

Bucky laughs, shakes his head, and kisses Steve again. “I’m not sad. At all. I just… I really want this.”

Steve traces the line of Bucky’s chin. “Okay, love. I’m really glad.”  
Bucky closes his eyes, content, smiling when Steve lays his palm against Bucky’s cheek. He’s visited, as he sometimes is, but complete, devastating astonishment that he should get to love this extraordinary person for nearly all of his life, that people look at Bucky’s lovely, lovely face and don’t know that he has been beaten until he passed out and had guns put on him and been made to do things that still make Steve’s blood feel chilled. And, more importantly, that he has made a beautiful life for himself out of nothing but damage, that he wrote what has been called an extraordinary debut novel, that he cooks and bakes wonderfully and for people who he adores and who adore him right back for no reason than because he wants to. If someone this spectacular should trust Steve, then he will take that trust and cradle it because it is something precious.

“I’m excited,” Bucky says sleepily.

“Me, too.” And they allow themselves to be, for the moment, excited for this day that is otherwise full of dread. Hope, for now, can be the thing that withstands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i'm back at school so updates may be slow and sporadic but you know i'd never ever give up on this fic. live love light. big shoutout to claire. if this reads like i just reread a little life its because i did


	9. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda short it was gonna be longer but a) it would have been at least another week until i updated and b)thematically it works better to split it up so. here is this!

On the morning of Bucky’s twenty-fifth birthday, Steve forgoes his run and walks, instead, to their favorite bakery a few blocks away, then stops for coffee and is home before Bucky wakes up. Breakfast in bed is not unusual for them, usually with no particular occasion, just a sporadic gesture of appreciation. It has always felt to both of them a little luxurious, a privilege to lounge in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room together, no responsibilities pulling them away from pastries and rich coffee, and its specialness has not been worn away with time.

When Steve returns, Bucky is awake, sitting up and texting someone. He sweeps his hair back. He looks tired, but he smiles brightly as Steve enters and sets down the tray. Some croissants and muffins, two lattes, a bowl of raspberries, then flops heavily beside Bucky and kisses his face, slowly first, then incessantly, until Bucky is giggling and squirming underneath him, but with no protest. Penny tries to nudge her way in between them until Bucky tells her it’s okay, lie down, very, very good girl, and Steve kisses him on the forehead, the twenty-fifth one, and then says, “Good morning.”

Bucky grins. “Good morning yourself.”

“Happy birthday.” Steve leans in and kisses him softly. Bucky’s hand comes to rest at his cheek. “One more for good luck.”

“Mm, thank you.” He lays a hand lazily on Steve’s cheek, smiling up at him until Steve straightens up. Discreetly, almost guiltily, Bucky looks at his phone. He shuts it off very quickly and gives a quick twitch of his head, steadying himself, then begins bouncing his leg.

“Anything?” Steve asks quietly. 

Bucky shakes his head. “It doesn’t even start ‘till two,” he mumbles, “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

Steve squeezes his hand, and Bucky squeezes his back. It makes Steve miserably angry, that Bucky has to worry about this at all, but especially today, that he cannot just have a day of uncomplicated happiness. Bucky brings his knees up to rest his chin on them and sighs.

“What are you thinking for dinner tonight?” Steve asks. 

“We can just make something here,” Bucky says quickly.

“ _I_ will make something, and you can lounge and give me orders.” 

Bucky smiles at that, and Steve is glad. It’s not an unusual plan for either of their birthdays; later this week, they will celebrate with friends. But Steve knows this is his preparation for the worst. He plants his elbows on the table and leans gracelessly across the plates to kiss Bucky on the forehead.

“So,” Bucky says, when Steve has sat back down. “You ready?” He bites pointedly into a croissant.

“You still want this?”

“Of course.” They smirk at each other until Steve heaves a dramatic sigh.

“I’m ready when you’re ready.”

Along their counters and much of the shelving in their kitchen are rows of tattooed grapefruits and oranges and apples. Most of them are respectable, even impressive. Steve has not tried the exact design that he’s going to do for Bucky, but he has tried out complicated floral patterns, and succeeded with them. Anyway, he reminds himself, when he turns them over and stares at imperfections, he’s tattooing Bucky’s stomach, not a sphere, and he is not confined to the circumference of a small piece of fruit. But he is nervous.

Bucky practiced too, inking an orange with a cat that ended up looking a little lopsided, a little shaky, but unmistakably a cat. “This is fun,” he had said, “it’s like dyeing Easter eggs.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, maybe for you. I’m under a bit of pressure.”

“But you’re good at it,” Bucky said, and grinned at him. “C’mon. You could sell these for a hundred grand apiece. I’m not even kidding.”

“If I were more pretentious, maybe this would be my next exhibit.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Steven,” Bucky said. “If you did this and then said it was making a statement about how all art goes rotten, you’d really blow the critics’ minds.”

“Well,” Steve said, with a dramatic eye roll, “you’re not a piece of fruit.”

“No?” Bucky said, and raised an eyebrow, perfectly deadpan, then grinned when Steve snorted despite himself.

But Bucky is ready and Steve is as ready as he’s going to be, though they don’t do it right away. They go for a walk. It’s warm enough that they can wear light jackets over hoodies, a brief reprieve from winter, and the park is full and vivid with activity. They hold hands and trade off throwing a tennis ball for Penny. Bucky is very quiet. Steve turns to him and is surprised to see the blankness on his face, the little quiver at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey.” Steve nudges him lightly in the ribs. “You alright, angel?”

Bucky blinks once. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m just… I’m just worried.”

“I know, babe,” Steve says sadly. Bucky rolls his shoulders back, a short, anxious movement, and sighs when Steve puts an arm over him and kisses him on the head.

“Maybe,” Bucky says, and wrings his hands, “um, we should have gone. What if they think—they think because I didn’t show up today, I don’t care, and they—” His breathing is caught with, Steve realizes with anguish, what can only be described as terror. He feels a flush of shame for not _diminishing_ this for Bucky, per se, but maybe not realizing how frightened he is. He catches Bucky’s wrist lightly and thumbs along it and then, a moment later, when Bucky sinks against him, wraps his arms around him and braces his hand against the back of Bucky’s head.

“That’s not gonna happen,” he whispers. “It’s just not. They don’t think like that.”

Bucky nods tightly against Steve’s shoulder, although Steve knows he doesn’t believe it all the way. “How can I be so scared of someone who’s gone?”

Steve knows it might be rhetorical, but he still says fiercely, “Because he hurt you, Buck.”

“I know,” Bucky mumbles, and rocks himself on his heels. “I know.”

“Hey.” Bucky looks up, his eyes full of fear. “What would help right now?”

Bucky shrugs. He lifts his gaze up to a sky that is perfectly blue, as if it is all one taut, even sheet. Then he smiles a little. “You know what I want.”

Steve laughs and scuffs his shoe over a sparse patch of dirt. “Hey, I’m ready if you are.”

Bucky gives him a reserved little smile, almost like he is afraid to push the boundaries of joy. Then he holds his hand out again to Steve and says, “Okay, then. Let’s go home.”

***

“Can’t believe I could get a reservation at this parlor,” Bucky says to Steve. He has brightened since they arrived home, and if nothing else, Steve is glad for that. They are in the living room, curtains drawn against too-bright midday sun that make it harder for Steve to see.

“Ha,” Steve says.

They hold hands; Steve is not sure who is gripping tighter. Steve kisses Bucky’s knuckles once.

He has sterilized the needles four times and laid doctor’s office paper over the couch where Bucky is lying down. Steve bought the most official-looking set of tattoo equipment he could buy, a ridiculous expenditure of money for something that is going to be a one-off, but he wouldn’t entertain the risk of buying something cheap and leaving even more room for error. Everything is set out in its own niche position, like a complicated brunch spread. None of their friends took up his offer to practice doing a tattoo on them for free, so ultimately, he is going in blind. Unhelpfully, he thinks of something like free scaling; you can study and prep and memorize the rules for something, but that doesn’t mean you should go in at the highest stakes with no practice.

On his laptop is the Wikihow page for giving someone a tattoo. Steve has to swallow the urge to laugh when he thinks about it.

“Getting cold feet?” Bucky asks.

“You wish.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know. Sorry. I’m nervous.”

Buck softens considerably. “Do you not want to do this?”

Steve shakes his head. “I just don’t want to do it wrong, and then forever you have flowers that look nothing like flowers.”

“Well,” Bucky says, “you’d still love me anyway.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Stevie,” says Bucky. “I trust you.”

Steve kisses his hip. “I know. I just… I wanna, um. Earn that trust.”

“You already have. A whole lot.” 

“I love you,” Steve says. “Can I… you okay if I start?” 

Bucky nods. He shivers a little, but takes a breath and holds still. Regrettably, Steve drops Bucky’s hand so he can steady his own hand on Bucky’s hip. He arches up to kiss him once on the mouth, and it gets a quiet little laugh from Bucky. The animals, even Penny, are closed into the kitchen for minimal distractions. 

Steve takes a deep breath, then several more, until the hysteric pounding of his heart has settled to a dull anxiety buzz. Then he says, “Okay, I’m gonna start.”

It’s only tracing, Steve tells himself. The image is already there, the stenciled image of it superimposed onto Bucky’s stomach. It’s very pretty, Steve thinks, it looks nice like that. He wishes he had more faith in himself to keep it that way.

Steve begins it from the top, just beneath Bucky’s ribs. The needle, when it crosses over a cluster of scars, raises, and Steve winces despite himself. Bucky makes a small, choked noise.

“Buck?” Steve says, right away. “You okay?”

Bucky nods, his face screwed up in discomfort. “Yeah. Jus’ hurts a little.”

“I know, I’m sorry, love. You want—”

“Want you to stop so I have a random mark on my side highlighting those? No.” He takes a few breaths; Steve fingers the needle anxiously. “Could you talk to me?” Bucky says quietly. “Just tell me about your day, or something. If it isn’t too distracting.”

“Yeah,” Steve says breathlessly, “yeah, of course.”

He starts babbling, too afraid to take any focus off of getting the lines right to pay attention to what he is saying. He tells Bucky about the teenagers he had stood behind at the grocery store earlier and their ten minute attempt to convince the cashier to sell them drinks, which segues him into reminiscing about the first time he and Bucky had gotten drunk together on cheap beers stolen from Bucky’s dad. He looks up to make sure Bucky is smiling, and he is, but he doesn’t contribute much, too concentrated on staying still. Steve kisses his hand a few times, asks him if he’s alright, and Bucky does so well.

Steve, a few times, finds himself breathless at the intimacy of this. He had thought he and Bucky had already trusted each other in every way there was to do so, but this is entirely unlike anything they’ve done together. Under his finger and the needle, Bucky’s skin feels thin as tissue paper. _I trust you to do something permanent to my body_ , Bucky is saying with this, _despite the permanence of all of the bad things, I am trusting you with this._ It makes his chest hurt, the hugeness of it. He pauses, wipes the excess ink, and says, “Can I kiss you?”

Bucky blinks at him, a little glassy and breathless but all there, and nods. Steve kisses him very softly, not lingering long, just enough that he can pour some of the impossible emotion of what’s in his chest somewhere before it burns him up. Bucky smiles faintly when they break apart. Steve pushes a strand of hair back for him.

“How’s it going?” Bucky asks quietly. “I can’t really see.”

Unable to resist, Steve says, “Good, I just gotta get the balls right—”

Bucky snorts. “Low hanging fruit.”

Grinning, Steve says, “It’s alright, I think. Um. Maybe twenty more minutes?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, smiling.

Steve is not doing much shading. It might look better with some more, but he does not trust himself not to colossally ruin it, so he sticks mostly with the clean lines and then, inside the petals and leaves, a little shadowing that mostly comes out okay. It’s easier than he had thought it would be. He keeps staring at it, looking for places to add a dash or thicken a line, and when he believes that adding will only detract from it, he leans back and whispers, “Okay. I think I’m done. Careful, don’t move yet…” Carefully, he swabs the wipe over it, then lays the plastic wrap over Bucky’s arm. “Okay. Okay.”

Anxiously, Bucky twists to his left to look at it. It was done on an angle instead of straight and parallel to his arm, so it’s easy enough for him to look at and trace, and watching him stare at it turns Steve’s heart over in his chest. Immediately, he can see lines that were shakier or thinner than he’d wanted them to be and places where more shading could have been, and worrying because it doesn’t hide the scars completely, just makes them harder to see and follow in some places. But then Bucky lifts his eyes and they are full of such trust and he doesn’t look young, exactly, or naive, but impossibly soft, like the dust swept off a dandelion whirling through grass.

“Steve,” he says. “Steve. It’s so fucking pretty. Thank you. It’s so perfect.” Before Steve can react to that, Bucky pulls him in for a kiss, messy and a little tearful, his hands cupping Steve’s face. Steve is happy to oblige him there.

Bucky feels giddy and drunk on everything around him, the fading, charged pain on his skin and Steve’s hands, warm on his shoulders and the rosy flush of their living room from the Christmas tree. Sometimes he feels he will never be able to reconcile his body with his own autonomy, but it is clear and unshakable right now, and when Steve’s hands fall over his bare skin, there is no flicker of hesitation. _My body’s mine just as much when I’m handing it over to Steve,_ Bucky thinks, and chokes out a weak, delighted laugh at the thought. He belongs more to himself when Steve is there, his hands and his words and right now, his art, all solid and real and reminding Bucky where he is. He sometimes thinks he couldn’t belong to himself if he didn’t belong to Steve.

They eat around seven. Steve made a simple, vegetable heavy pasta that he likes and lit candles on the table and poured them each a seltzer, since Bucky didn’t want to drink. He eats, and keeps lifting his shirt to look at the art (“It’ll still be there after you eat, Buck,” Steve tells him, but looks delighted all the same.) Under the table, their legs brush and occasionally twine together. Steve’s closeness keeps some of the anxiety at bay.

Carol calls after they have finished, when they are sitting happily around the table chatting. He reaches for Steve’s hand and squeezes hard, and Steve squeezes back..

“Hi,” Bucky says, breathlessly. Steve has put his arms around Bucky’s waist and is holding him, the receiver close enough that he can hear what she says.

“Hey, kiddo,” says Carol. “Denied. You’re alright.”

Bucky unclenches. Weak with relief, he slumps forward and Steve catches him, coaxing his head into his shoulder, shushing him when he begins to weep. “Hey, Carol,” Steve says, and Bucky can hear the tremor of gratitude in his voice. He realizes Steve intercepted his phone before he dropped it. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. Buck, you there?”

“Yeah,” Bucky manages. 

“I’m really, really glad. So take a breath. You beat him, again, even though you shouldn’t have had to.”

He thanks her again, and she gives them her love and tells him again that he and Steve should come over that week, she and Maria owe him a birthday present. He lifts his gaze to Steve and is surprised at the look in his eyes, the relief-tinted triumph. He folds into Steve’s arms and lets himself be kissed on the forehead and cradled. He feels not quite relief, but an absence of dread that has sat between his ribs for the last several weeks, and he allows himself that, today.

He is able to enjoy himself after that. He compartmentalizes, he does not read any articles or check his email. Instead, he lets Steve pull him into a slow dance in the kitchen, cooing Happy Birthday into his ear while they rock to make him giggle, kissing his cheek before cutting into the tiny cake with frosted flowers.

Bucky had dodged and shrugged off Steve’s insistent questioning about what Bucky wanted; it is difficult, these days, to come up with any creature comforts he doesn’t have, and anyway, his birthday so closely following Christmas always leaves him wanting for nothing. But Steve gives Bucky the rest of his gifts, wrapped carefully in silver paper. Bucky throws his arms around Steve’s neck and kisses him on the cheek when he receives the tickets, and he grows teary paging through the drawings, both of which reactions leave Steve delighted.

“You’re so good to me,” Bucky whispers afterwards, when he has crawled into Steve’s lap and straddled his waist and kissed him. “How did I end up with you?”

That kind of language always feels fraught. It would normally worry Steve, but Bucky seems clear-headed and happy enough, so he whispers back, “Probably ‘cause I couldn’t live without you.”

“I’m twenty-five,” Bucky whispers that night, to Steve.

They are lying on their sides, facing one another. Steve gives him a warm smile. “That you are.”

Twenty-five, an age that jolts him with its maturity, even though he does not feel especially grown or mature or wise. He is twenty-five and he has published a novel and he is getting married. He used to think he’d be dead before twenty-one.

“I’ve officially known you for four times the amount of time I didn’t know you.” Steve smiles at that, then kisses Bucky’s knuckles. He kisses the ring. “Our relationship is almost old enough to buy alcohol.”

“You’re weird,” says Steve. Bucky smiles and nuzzles into his neck, preening when Steve’s hand comes to lay against his chin. “Hey,” he whispers, “Are you relieved?”

“I—yeah,” Bucky whispers back. It is a complicated relief, though. He swallows hard and breathes in again, the familiar, warm smell of Steve’s soap filling his lungs. “Are you?”

“God, yeah.” 

Steve’s relief comforts Bucky some. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for Steve’s happiness and safety. It eases some of the residual distress that follows something as destabilizing as this, a worry that feels selfish, that feels stupid. He swallows hard. He focuses instead on gratitude. For the three warm, soft animals in this room, for his warm, safe house, for the man next to him who is touching him gently and chastely and has today given him luxuries that seem unimaginable even as he lives them, that he still has to resist feeling undeserving of. He is rocked to sleep by that, and that is what flits through his head as he dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my love 2 claire. cafelesbian on tumblr


	10. ten

Two weeks pass, and then one day, Bucky is alone in the kitchen making a grocery list when his phone rings. He picks up even though it is an unsaved number. A voice, tinny and automated, informs him, “This is a collect call from Otisville Correctional Facility. Please say yes to confirm you accept the charges.”

Bucky’s breath goes flat and still in his lungs. He whispers, without knowing why, “Yes.”

A sterile, mechanical sound. Bucky stands very still. He does not even breathe, too afraid of triggering anything at all from the other end. He is not quite certain that this isn’t all a mistake.

“Jesus,” Alexander says, “I thought you’d be too much of a pussy to pick up.”

Bucky’s free hand comes over his face, as if there is an imminent blow he has to shield himself from. “What do you want?” he whispers, his voice thin.

“What do I want.” He huffs out a laugh. “What do I want. Well, I want to live the last six months of my fucking life not in prison, but you saw to it that that won’t happen, didn’t you?”

Bucky closes his eyes and counts to five. He eases himself into sitting down at the counter. He is not brave enough to say anything in his defense, but at least he doesn’t grovel like he would have once.

“You gonna say anything, you vicious little cunt?”

Bucky, with boldness that astonishes him, musters, “You did this to yourself.”

“Oh? That’s what they call victim blaming, isn’t it, James? You seem to have paraded that term around enough to know better.”

Bucky is aware he can hang up, very faintly. The way one is aware, while standing on a roof, that they could jump. He swallows hard.

“You feel good about this, huh?” sneers Alexander. “You gain a lot, by whining to any journalist who will listen? Couldn’t stand that you weren’t being talked about anymore? Trying to scrape up another fucking book deal?”

Bucky flinches. Penny whines, her paws on his knees, trying to bring him closer. “Stop,” he manages, and he wishes he’d said nothing at all.

“You know what the most disgusting thing about you is, _Bucky_? It’s not that you’re a filthy slut who used to spread your legs for anyone who looked your way, or that you’re a lying little golddigger, or that everything about you is repulsive. It’s that you think you’re some kind of fucking martyr, you actually walk around with an ego because you view yourself as a champion for victims. But this? This is petty cruelty. What the fuck are you gaining from writing letters claiming I abused you so I can die in here, hm? You aren’t worth my time. You and your cunt-struck boyfriend would never have heard from me again. You didn’t gain fucking anything from this. You’re cruel, and you’re bad, and that’s why you had to be put in your place. You killed me, you know that? You’ve killed me. Everyone agrees murder is worse than rape.” He stops, out of breath. “You’re so fucking—”

Bucky hangs up then, shuddered out of his paralysis, and it is over. He gets down to Penny’s level, and she presses against him, her weight warm and welcome, and he puts his arms around her and briefly presses his cheek into her fur and reminds himself that he is not going to be hurt by anyone, the fact of that phone call was proof of that. He shivers uncontrollably, disturbingly. He has the urge to shower, or hurt himself, or crawl somewhere dark and tight and make himself small, but Penny keeps him where he is, licking his face and putting pressure on his chest and interrupting the panic, and it is easier to succumb to what she is telling him to do than to get up, so he stays. Eventually, when the hyperventilating has stopped, she moves away from him, but only to paw at her full water dish and stare at him. She does this until he stands, fills a cup with water, and drinks it in one gulp. When he sits again, hugging his knees to his chest, she goes back to him. Bucky is glad Steve did not take her.

He stays like that for another ten minutes, then goes upstairs and takes a shower. Pierce called him twice more. He turns his phone off and lays down, gesturing Penny over, having her lay across his chest. The next thing he’s aware of is a hand against his face that he flinches away from until he hears his name and realizes it’s just Steve.

“Hey,” he’s saying. “Sorry, baby. Are you alright?”

The light in the room has changed, has swelled and become fuller. Bucky blinks and then fixes his gaze on Steve.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, “just don’t feel good.” It’s true, even physically. He feels hot and sore and sluggish.

Steve feels his cheek. His hand is cool. “Sorry, baby. Can I get you anything?”

Bucky shakes his head. He had not planned on not telling Steve, but the effort it would take to sit up and explain what happened, explain—he flinches—what Alexander had said to him, those words that have hooked into him like a virus, and then to explain why he hadn’t called Steve, is more than he can even begin to imagine. He will tell him later, because they don’t lie to each other, but he wants to be okay when he says it. Things have been good for a long time, and he has not felt so raw and tattered in months, and he can pull himself out of it, he just wants to close his eyes.

“Okay.” Steve bends down to kiss him on the eyebrow. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

Bucky sleeps so long and so deeply that he wonders if maybe he really did get sick. His body shuts down so effectively that he does not wake for another four hours, not until Steve comes back in to check, again, if he needs anything, and then returns with tea even when Bucky has told him he doesn’t need it.

The day after his birthday, he’d been standing with Steve in the backyard. It was still early, and it was bright but gray, the wintery translucent clouds filled with light. They were sitting on the steps of their patio, a blanket wrapped around the two of them, drinking coffee and tossing a ball for Penny and watching her grab it in mid-air and then Bucky looked, alarmed, at Steve and asked him if he’d done the right thing.

“Yes,” Steve had promised him, without a second of hesitation, and kissed him on the head. “Yes. I promise you did.”

And Bucky let himself take that at face value. He did not, for once, find the ways to disagree, however outlandish his justification, perhaps because he needed so badly for Steve to be right. It is a thought that frightens him, that he could have hurt somebody so devastatingly, and it has been confirmed by the person who frightens him most.

He let Steve walk Penny earlier, but he takes her again now, startled awake by the chill. He returns home; he vacuums the entire main floor, he runs and turns over a load of laundry, he bakes a simple bread and a slightly more complicated lentil soup. Steve had a meeting about a big commission, but he texted Bucky to call if he needed anything and that he wouldn’t be home late, and when he does arrive home, the food is almost ready.

“Hey,” he says, and smiles. “Feeling better?”

Bucky nods and allows himself to be embraced. He leans into Steve a little heavily and a little long, and he knows Steve notices by the way his hand lingers at the back of Bucky’s head, but he does not say anything. “That smells amazing,” he tells Bucky, who smiles.

They eat in front of a movie, Bucky allowing Steve to think he’s just tired. He half-watches, laying his head on Steve’s shoulder and letting Steve play with his hair, and when Steve offers to do the dishes since he cooked, he thanks him and goes upstairs to shower again, and when he gets out, Steve has come upstairs.

“You sure you’re okay?” Steve asks him. 

He turns his back to Steve and dries his hair, counts to five, and turns back. Bucky nods, then clambers into bed beside him.

“C’mere,” Bucky says, and crashes into a kiss with Steve, a little fast, not quite bruising but a little rougher on the edges than otherwise normal for them, but not enough to scare him. He wants to feel nothing, he wants overwhelming tenderness, but he also wants to make Steve happy and he cannot do that by burying his face in his shirt and crying, so he settles for this. 

“Hi,” Steve says. “You sure?” It’s a shorthand, and he will ask again several more times, but Bucky nods. 

Steve kisses him, then his hand comes to rest above his hip under his shirt, where he moves his fingers in the vague shape of the tattoo. Bucky likes when he does that, and he likes it now, this unambiguously safe touch that he never has to compare to anything anyone else did to him. He twines his legs around Steve so they are locked together. He expects the closeness, the fact that it is Steve, whose body he knows down to the smallest divots, to bring him some comfort, but it does not work like he’d hoped. In his head, Alexander calling him repulsive hours ago, but he grits his teeth against that because Steve is here, Steve is touching him and holding him with longing that is so tender it must be proof that he is not repulsive, and when Steve moves a hand under his shirt, that is done with love, too, even though it makes Bucky want to recoil for a beat. Inside of him, the old, agonizing plea to _be good be good be good_ except right now it is about everything, not just how well he can _fucking take it tight little whore_ but he is afraid of his own cruelty and he wants, if nothing else, to do something good in the way that is most familiar to him, so he does not stop or flinch when anxiety begins to coil in him. He does not stop him even when he finds himself on his back, Steve leaning over him, which doesn’t always bother him but feels like a cage right now. There is only a definitive before and after; he is under Steve and then he has twisted away and felt his elbow collide solidly with Steve’s face, and Steve has jerked away and pressed his palm over his face.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve gasps, and Bucky, scrambling to his knees, chokes out a whimper.

“Oh, my god,” he says faintly, and reaches for Steve, then stops himself. “Oh, god. Oh, Jesus, Steve, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”

Steve blinks a couple of times and then uncovers his face. There is blood streaked down his chin. “Oh, my god,” Bucky whispers again.

“It’s okay,” Steve says hoarsely. “‘S alright. It was an accident.” But he is in pain. He reaches for the tissue box.

“I hit you,” Bucky whispers, and thinks he might be sick.

“Bucky,” says Steve, “that’s ridiculous. It was an accident. It didn’t hurt that badly, I promise.”

A sick part of him waits for, even wants for Steve to hit him back, so hard that his head snaps to the side. Bucky takes the comforter into his hands and squeezes, horrified. “You elbowed me by mistake ‘cause you were scared because I did something you didn’t like. It’s alright.” But Bucky shakes his head, unspeakably distressed. “Bucky, Bucky.” Steve reaches for his hands, and Bucky winces at the blood on his palm. “Baby, look at me. Please. It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to, you just got scared.”

Bucky nods. His breathing is shallow and scared, and he stays still as Steve goes into the bathroom to rinse his face, his knuckles white on the comforter. He winces.

“Bucky,” Steve says, very softly. “Bucky, I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding?” Bucky hears himself whisper. “Steve, I gave you a fucking nosebleed.”

Steve smiles weakly. “Builds character.”

Bucky says, tearfully, “This isn’t fucking funny.”

“It’s no big deal, Buck, I promise. It doesn’t even hurt.” Bucky whimpers a little. He knows, by now, that he will not be punished by Steve, but he still has to field a miserable flash of _I hurt him, he hurts me back._ He rocks himself for a moment. “C’mere, Bucky.” Steve lifts an arm so Bucky, nervous, can bury himself into Steve’s chest. He exhales, breath caught. Steve rubs his back.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers again. His nerves are shot; his whole body is trapped in the sensation of missing the top step in the dark.

“Sh.” Steve cradles him. It is so fucked up that Steve should have to comfort him right now. He has hurt the person he loves the most and he is being soothed for it. Alexander telling him he’s cruel. He begins to cry so hard and suddenly that it shocks even him.

Steve, alarmed, sits up. “Hey, hey, baby,” he says, and coaxes Bucky into looking up towards him. His face is screwed up in anguish. He’s crying so hard Steve worries he’s going to make himself sick. “Buck. Baby. Breathe with me, okay?” He takes Bucky’s hand in his and squeezes. Bucky draws a ragged gasp, and then another, until they begin to even out. “That’s good, angel, that’s good. It’s alright, sweetheart. It was an accident. It’s no big deal, I promise.” Steve feels terrible for not making that clearer before. He was not thrilled to be socked in the face, but it doesn’t hurt anymore and he doesn’t blame Bucky at all.

Bucky makes a small gasping noise, and then swallows hard. Steve watches him open and close his mouth, shuck his head, and then take another breath. Then he whispers, “Steve, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Steve says quietly. A somberness has come over them, something almost frightening in the air.

Bucky constricts and releases his hands. “He called me today.”

“Who?” Steve says prematurely, and after thinking for a half a second feels idiotic for asking. Bucky winces and shuts his eyes. Swallowing hard, Steve says, “When?”

“This morning,” Bucky says. His voice is so, so small.

“What?” Bucky winces a little. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve demands. Then, when Bucky cowers back, “Fuck. Buck, I’m not angry, yeah? But why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky gives an almost imperceptible shrug. He will not lift his gaze. It’s true, Steve is not angry, exactly, but he is upset with Bucky for keeping something like this all day and then trying to— _fuck—punish_ himself with sex or something. Steve presses his palms over his eyes. “Bucky, baby. Please look at me.” Bucky does, more out of terror than anything else. When this happens, it astonishes Steve how easily Bucky slips back into believing he will be hurt. “Bucky. Talk to me. Please.” Gently, when Bucky doesn’t reply, Steve adds, “Baby, what did he say?” although he can guess.

“What you’d expect,” Bucky mumbles.

“That’s not an answer,” Steve says, and it comes out snappier than he had meant for it to. Bucky flinches again, and Steve sinks back, ashamed of himself. He can imagine what Bucky is feeling, frightened and dirty and violated and miserable, but he doesn’t know how to adequately comfort him when Bucky will not talk to him. He exhales through his teeth. “Bucky,” he says, very softly. “Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Come here.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky whispers, but he sinks against Steve’s chest all the same.

“Baby,” Steve says, his voice strained. “C’mon, love. We can talk about it.”

“Not now,” Bucky whispers. “Please, Steve. In the morning.”

Steve considers arguing that, but Bucky looks so tired and raw that he decides he can’t, he cannot force him. He swallows hard. “Okay. But we have to talk about it.”

“I know,” Bucky says.

Steve thinks, surely, neither of them will be able to sleep, but he wakes slowly and uncomfortably and realizes he must have knocked out. It is almost five am, the light so untouched it feels unnatural. Bucky’s side of the bed is empty. Steve, exhausted, not even fully remembering why this is so important, rouses himself and goes downstairs to find him.

They are never in the kitchen this early, so it is like being in a completely new room, the unfamiliar way the light lands and the shadows forming themselves in new positions. On the floor, looking out the back window, Bucky. Steve approaches him very carefully. He harbors the terrible knowledge that Alexander used to tell Bucky he was too dirty to sit anywhere but the floor, and in his most vulnerable moments, Bucky would slip back into that conviction and kneel beside the couch or bed. He sits beside him, all of his movements soft, and touches him on the shoulder. 

Bucky is very still. Steve worries he’s dissociating, but then he turns his head to Steve and his eyes are so soft and sad, and Steve goes to wrap his arms around Bucky, only his body is stiff so Steve backs off and says his name, and Bucky winces.

“Buck,” Steve says again. “Baby, please talk to me.”

His shoulders hunch over further. His voice is small and thin when he says, “I think I—I think I should go see him.”

Steve scoffs, dismissive and a little confused. Bucky’s mouth pulls into a thin, quivering line.

“Are you—are you serious?” Bucky nods, one miserable jerk of his head. Steve retracts his hand from Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky, why?”

Bucky gulps a few times. “I th-think I owe—I owe him that.”

“I’m sorry, you _owe_ him?” Steve reminds himself to tamper down the anger, but it’s hard. Bucky makes himself smaller still. “What could you possibly owe him?”

But he shakes his head, the movement slight. Steve takes three breaths, then says, “Buck. I’m seriously asking. What do you think you owe him?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says miserably. “I killed him.”

Steve is rendered speechless for a few moments. “Bucky, what the fuck did he say to you?”

Bucky’s breathing is too fast and hard now, and Steve realizes he is on the verge of a panic attack. Steve moves aside to let Penny in between them and then presses his hands over his eyes momentarily. The room has grown brighter even in the five minutes they have been sitting here, like a submarine ascending.

“‘M awful.” Bucky’s voice is so, so quiet. “What—What I did is… it’s fucking… objectively, evil—” He buries his face in his hands, anguised. Steve, frantic, reaches over and takes his wrists.

“Bucky, baby. No, it isn’t. Buck. He’s a fucking insane serial rapist who… who gave an interview saying insane, cruel things two weeks ago. He hasn’t changed. He would’ve hurt more people.” Steve pauses, throat thick. “Jesus, Buck, he probably would’ve come after you and me, one way or another. You had—you had an article with like twelve different victims saying they were terrified of him. You protected yourself, and you protected other people you don’t even know. That’s the opposite of awful.”

Bucky pitches forward slightly. “I don’t wanna be cruel,” he whispers. “It’s disgusting, to do that to anyone.”

Aghast, Steve says, “Is that what he fucking said to you?”

Bucky winces and turns away. “I j-just feel like, if I—if he’s gonna die in prison ‘cause—’cause of me, I owe him a visit.”

Steve is very aware that this reaction is nothing that he can blame Bucky for, it is purely and obviously the product of a traumatized person being gaslit by their abuser. But he is so angry, suddenly, irrationally and frighteningly angry.

“What do you think is gonna happen?” Steve snaps. “You think he’s gonna apologize? What, you wanna go in there and forgive him?”

Bucky shakes his head fast and hard. He is frightened, Steve realizes miserably, but the ball is rolling. “I just don’t want to—I don’t know. I don’t know.” Steve flattens his palms over his eyes again and exhales. When he lowers his hands, Bucky is looking at him with a timidity that he has not seen from him maybe in years. “Would you come with me?”

“What?”

He looks down; his voice shakes. “If I go.”

Steve stares at him. He has the sense that the world is reconstructing itself into something unrecognizable. “No,” he says sharper than he meant to.

“I can’t go alone,” Bucky whispers.

Agitation roiling in him, Steve snaps, “Well, good, ‘cause I don’t fucking want you to go, and I think you’re being ridiculous. But there’s no way in hell I’m going with you, because personally, I’m thrilled that the man who abused the person I love and tried to shoot me in the head is going to die a miserable, lonely death. And actually, I fucking love you, and the last thing in the world that I want is to go with you to see someone who’s going to say terrible things to you that couldn’t be further from true so that you can internalize that and hate yourself for no reason.” Steve barely knows what he’s saying, he is so tired. His anger, he’s aware even now, is misdirected, but he is filled with a guilt-stricken emotion that he has always worked very hard against, which is frustration with Bucky’s trauma.

Bucky whispers, “Stop.”

Steve slumps back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bucky. Please.” He doesn’t even know what he is asking.

“Please don’t make me do it alone, Steve,” he says. His voice is so small.

“Bucky, you are the only one making yourself do anything.” He regrets the harshness, but he is appalled by this conversation. “You’re punishing yourself for something you should have no guilt about.”

Bucky buries his face in his hands, unspeakably distressed. “I don’t want to be like him,” he whimpers.

“God, Buck.” Agonized, Steve reaches for him. Bucky stiffens at first, but then relaxes and lets Steve rub between his shoulders. “You’re nothing like him.” This is one of the things that makes Steve angriest in the world, this false dichotomy that advertises total forgiveness or all encompassing hate, the fetishization of warped selflessness that he has watched Bucky struggle with, that almost all victims must struggle with at some point, the shitty, manipulative, movie-screen idea that by wishing anything but goodness on someone who tortured him makes him a torturer, too.

Bucky shakes his head. Steve knows without looking at his face that it is in protest. “I’m so scared he was right.”

“How can you think that, Buck?” Steve pulls away from him to say it. “I mean, how the fuck can you believe whatever he said to you—which you still won’t tell me, by the way? He’s a fucking insane serial rapist. You know that.”

For the first time, hostility in Bucky’s voice. “So I should just get over it?”

“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I’m—fuck. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” Bucky turns away. “Bucky, he has proven a million times that he has no ability to do anything but hurt people. So as far as I, and everyone else, is concerned, you are protecting people. Whatever he told you is probably exactly what an abusive, compulsive master-manipulator would say.”

“I know what kind of person he is,” Bucky says hoarsely.

“Yeah, I know. You know better than probably anyone. So I don’t know why you’re letting him convince you he deserves fucking anything.” Steve winces at his own language. He is so angry and so sad for Bucky and so exhausted he can barely see straight. The kitchen is almost bright now, a silvery blue color like clear, shallow water. Steve feels dizzy. 

Bucky, unconvinced, looks at the floor. His eyes are half shut, eyelashes fluttering like he’s in physical pain.

“Bucky, how can you believe him?” Steve asks. “How can you believe him over me, and your friends, and everyone else who knows you and knows that you did the right thing here, just like you always do the right thing?” He does not mean for it to sound so accusatory, so petty, but it comes out that way.

At that, Bucky flinches. “That’s not fair,” he whispers. “You know that’s not fair.”

He does, but he can’t quite bring himself to apologize. “Buck,” says Steve, softly. “It’s five am. Can we go back to bed and talk about this in a couple of hours? Please.”

Bucky nods. He looks dazed, like he has only just realized how exhausted he is, and even though Steve extends his hand he pushes himself up. Steve sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweats until they are in bed again.

“Steve?” Bucky whispers. They are lying beside each other and Steve is facing his back, and normally he’d reach out and wrap his arms around Bucky but he does not know if he wants that. They’re bad at fighting with each other, although Steve doesn’t even know if this is a fight.

“Yeah?” he says quietly.

“Please don’t be mad at me.” The telltale quiver in Bucky’s voice before tears. 

Steve’s throat squeezes. “I’m not mad at you,” he whispers. He wishes Bucky would turn around. “I’m not mad at you. I just—It hurts to watch you blame yourself so much for something that isn’t your fault. And I’m livid that he made you think you have to punish yourself. But I’m not mad at you.”

“Okay,” Bucky whispers. Steve waits a beat, and then puts an arm over Bucky and, when he touches Steve’s hand, pulls him closer.

They are both pulled under lethargic sleep, merciful and undisrupted until four hours later. When Steve wakes around nine, they have come untangled, but he still has one arm thrown over Bucky’s side and Bucky has turned over so he is facing Steve, one hand against his chest, and it fills Steve with a strange and confusing grief. Penny, on Bucky’s side, lifts her head and yawns.

“You hungry?” Steve asks her. Her ears perk up. “Alright, c’mon.” She licks Bucky once on the ear. Still asleep, he smiles, pats her clumsily on the snout, and burrows back into the pillow. Steve, forgetting everything, smiles at this.

He feeds Penny and the cats and makes himself coffee, which he swallows down in quick, scalding gulps. He puts away clean dishes, he tells Clint yes to a few commissions and no to most of them. An hour passes before he hears the faint, even sound of Bucky’s footsteps the floor above just before he makes his way downstairs and into the doorway.

“Hi,” Bucky says quietly. He touches the inside of his wrist.

“Hey,” Steve says. He retrieves a mug, fills it with coffee, and holds it out, a peace offering. Bucky smiles vaguely and takes it. “Did you sleep?”

He nods once, then looks down, timid. He busies himself with the cream and sugar and by then has worked up the nerve to look back at Steve. “Kinda. You?” Steve shrugs. “You look tired,” Bucky tells him.

“Yeah, well. You’ve looked better.” They smile at one another, almost shy. Then Steve sits at the counter, spinning his half-empty mug. “Buck,” he says finally, very softly.

Bucky winces. “I know.”

“I wish you’d told me.”

“I know.” He looks down again. He looks young. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Alpine propels herself suddenly onto the counter, nearly knocking Steve’s mug over. It makes Bucky smile, and Steve is glad for that. 

“How are you feeling?”

Bucky thinks about this. “Less shitty than yesterday, but that’s not saying that much.”

Steve almost does not want to acknowledge it, like something that they can both just forget if they don’t bring it up, but he knows they have to talk about it. “Do you still want to—to go there?” He cannot quite banish the incredulity from his voice.

Bucky hears it. He winces. “I, um. I just. I d-don’t want to, but I think I-I-I should.” Steve scoffs; he can’t help it. Bucky snaps his head up. “I know you think I’m being stupid—”

“I don’t—I don’t think you’re being stupid, I think you’re hurting yourself ‘cause you let him get to you.” Steve has always, always tried to avoid any language— _let him_ —that puts the responsibility on Bucky, and he doesn’t even mean it that way, but it comes out before he can stop it. “I’m sorry. I know—I know you feel like I’m mad at you, and I’m not, really. I’m really, really angry that he got in your head like this. I know it isn’t your fault.”

Bucky’s eyes are bright and glassy, but he glares at Steve. “You know, I actually am capable of making my own assessments.”

“For god’s sake, Bucky, I know that.”

“I don’t—I didn’t need h-him to say anything to me to make me feel like I have to do that.”

“Really?” Steve says. “So it’s just a completely, out-of-the-blue, not affected by anything at all decision to go see this absolute fucking monster who I know that you never want to see again?” Bucky flushes, angry. “Buck. Baby. Please, please can we just talk. Or can you tell Jennifer, because this is an insane thing to be thinking about?”

“It’s not insane!” Bucky snaps. “I’m not crazy.”

“I’d _never_ say—”

“I just—fuck, I don’t—I’ve got everything ‘cause of you, Steve, my life is—it’s so much better and easier than anyone even deserves, let alone me, and to be—to be using that to hurt someone, no matter how evil he is, I don’t… I don’t know.” He presses his hands over his face and shudders. “And I hate him and I don’t want him to get out but I—but still.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, his voice splintered, “what can I say or do to make you see that none of that is right. Anything.” 

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t know.”

“Have you told Jennifer?” Steve asks, knowing he hasn’t.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, annoyed. “Nope.”

“Well, I think you should.”

“‘Cause you think she’ll be on your side.”

That actually was why, but Steve says, “‘Cause I think she’ll have good advice.”

“I’ll call her,” he mumbles, resigned.

“I’m not, like, telling you what to do—”

“I know—”

“—I just want you to be okay.”

“I know.” Bucky looks at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he adds, quiet.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I’m always high maintenance.”

“So is our backyard,” Steve says, “and it’s beautiful and it brings me a lot of joy to take care of.” He is so glad when Bucky smiles at that, and there is a moment of warmth between them, all of the tension and worry lifting. But they are still too raw to sustain it, and they look away from each other, wincing.

“I told Scott I’d get lunch with him,” Bucky says softly. “I should get ready.”

“Okay.” Steve rubs his hands together, awkward. “Have fun. I’ll see you later.”

Bucky, before leaving, kisses Steve quickly on the cheek, a little anxious, but he does not want there to be coldness between them. He texts Jennifer. He feels bad for bothering her on a weekend, but she has good-naturedly chastised him for not reaching out when something distressing happens, and he thinks she will want to know. He only tells her Alexander called; he does not tell her what Steve said, or what he might do. He doesn’t especially feel like sitting in a restaurant and talking, but it is too late to cancel his plans with Scott, so he meets him at the brunch place they agreed on, sliding in across from him and smiling. He’s extremely tired, but he knows if he asks Scott about Cassie it will be at least ten minutes of conversation and photo viewing, so he does just that and is treated to pictures of her at the Transit Museum. He is able to delay Scott noticing something is wrong until after they order, when Scott puts his phone away and looks right at him.

“Hey,” Scott says, and reaches across the table to touch his wrist lightly. “Are you okay?”

Bucky nods, tight and fast. Then he presses one hand over his mouth to muffle a sob, turning away from where anyone else may see him, although no one is looking at them and no one would care either way, every booth in every diner in the city has been cried in by someone.

“Hey,” Scott says, soft and urgent. “It’s okay, kiddo. Breathe.” He braces his hands at Bucky’s elbows, arching his back a little to reach, a stabilizing, grounding touch that Bucky recognizes from the way he’d hold him when things were much worse than this. He smiles weakly and drags his sleeve across his eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispers. Scott rolls his eyes to make him laugh, which he huffs out.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Bucky tells him. It pours from him like an exhalation, interrupted only by the delivery of their food. Scott’s grimace deepens as he listens; the call, which Bucky leaves out all the details of, the fight with Steve over not telling him and then, lastly, the thing he feels he has to do that makes him feverish and weak to think of. Scott is quiet and sympathetic as he speaks, right up until the end. Then, he pulls his hand back and stares at him, astonished, when Bucky says he thinks he should go see him.

“You _what_?” Bucky winces; Scott, catching himself, lowers his hand and clears his throat. “Sorry. But are you kidding? Fuck, no. Absolutely not, no. Jesus, that fucking…” Scott rings his hands in the air once, agitated, then shakes his head. Bucky, a bit startled by the anger on his behalf, listens. “No. Steve’s right, you shouldn’t. Buck, are you—no. Bucky, Christ. Please don’t.” 

Bucky is rendered momentarily quiet; he had not expected this fervent of a reaction. “But what if I—I owe—”

“If you say you owe him anything, Bucky, I swear—” Scott breaks off and composes himself, shaking his head once. “God. What if Wanda was saying this to you, huh, that she should go visit her fucking teacher? What would you tell her?”

“It’s not the same,” Bucky says quietly.

“Why?”

“‘Cause she didn’t even put him in jail and she definitely didn’t… didn’t effectively kill him.”

“For fuck’s sake,” says Scott, and actually throws his hand in the air. Bucky actually scoffs at the drama of his reaction, and Scott scowls at him. “No. I put that guy in jail because he’s a piece of shit, and I don’t even know what his sentence is but I hope he dies in there. And I don’t know if there’s a hierarchy of how fucking awful rapists are, but if there is, Buck, Pierce is at the top, and he deserves every bit of suffering there is and frankly, if he had gotten out, me and Luis would’ve found him and killed him ourselves, so you can feel good about the fact that you saved him if you need to. And also—and I mean this with a lot of love—don’t flatter yourself. He was in the fucking Times like, four weeks ago talking about how he didn’t actually do anything wrong and I’m not a judge, but I don’t think that usually preludes someone with a life sentence getting out. So no, you didn’t kill him and if you had I would’ve congratulated you, and if you try to go make peace with him or something I’m with your boyf—fiancé on this one. I’m pretty sure you couldn’t get past us if we blocked the door together.” He exhales for effect. “So yeah. And I guarantee you Wanda will tell you the same thing, just nicer.”

“Wow,” Bucky says quietly. He almost wants to laugh. “I didn’t expect you to get as upset as Steve.”

“Yeah, newsflash: the people in your life care about you.” Scott gives him a small smile, then, remembering his irritation, turns it into a grimace. “Kiddo. Please bring this up with your therapist. I don’t know how to tell you you shouldn’t have any guilt, except that you seriously, seriously shouldn’t.”

He swallows hard, then sips his coffee. Scott looks like he wants to add something, but he resigns himself to squeezing Bucky’s hand again and sitting back.

After eating, Bucky hugs Scott; he tells him to bring Cassie over for dinner this week. He promises him he will call if he wants to talk and he won’t be hard on himself, and he walks home, a little lighter than before.

He feels dazed, but not unpleasantly. Between Scott and Steve the solid, miserable weight of his own perceived awfulness pressing on his chest has eased some, if not completely. He does not know what to do, but he has been released from feeling that his only course of action is to drag himself over glass until he feels he has suffered enough, which is, he knows, what Jennifer will tell him tomorrow. And he wants Steve, he wants to wrap his arms around him and apologize, he wants to be comforted and told it’s okay, a privilege that never loses its impossible weight no matter how often Steve gives it to him. It is foggy out, and the light seems to swell in the sky, the light color of the inside of an orange peel.

He arrives home and realizes that he has forgotten his keys. He rings the bell twice and is not answered, so he calls Steve. A seed of panic turns over in his chest, leftover paranoia from past horrors, but he only has to wait two rings before Steve answers.

“Hey.” He sounds breathless. “Bucky? You okay?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Surprised by the concern in Steve’s voice, he says, “I’m just locked out.”

“Oh.” Steve laughs. “Okay. I’m on my way back from a run right now, I’ll be there in five.”

“Okay.” He pauses, then adds, “Thanks. I love you.”

“You too. Be right there.”

He waits; he sits on the steps and scratches Penny between her ears when she looks sadly at him, wondering why she isn’t inside; he answers an email from Okoye asking him to do a reading at a small bookstore in DUMBO. When he spots Steve, he smiles and waits. Steve is almost cautious, unsure where they stand, and Bucky surprises him by throwing his arms around him so fast he stumbles back.

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers. “You were right. ‘M sorry.”

Steve holds onto him, a little confused. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” He pulls back and they look at each other, almost shy. “Let’s go in, yeah?”

He tucks himself into Steve’s side even though Steve is clammy with sweat. Steve lets them in, unsure what to make of it but glad to have Bucky close, glad that at least, whatever rift between them seems to have closed, and that will make everything that follows easier. They sit opposite one another on the couch, Steve in his running clothes and Bucky in a red sweater that belongs to both of them, they bought it as a joined gift for themselves from a boutique in Boston when they visited Natasha, but it is sized for Steve so it’s just too big on Bucky. Steve takes his hand.

“Sorry to disturb your run,” Bucky says.

“Nah, you didn’t,” says Steve, shaking his head. “I was done anyway.” He thumbs over a crease on Bucky’s palm, he can never remember if its love or life or wealth. “You seem a little better.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I feel a little better.” He pauses, then squeezes Steve’s hand again. “Scott agrees with you.”

Steve sends a private wave of gratitude into the air and hopes it reaches Scott. “You’re right a lot,” he tells Bucky, “but I think I’m right this time.”

Bucky smiles at that, but does not quite perk up. “It was really scary, Steve,” he whispers. “Even just hearing his voice. It was like it woke something up in me that I thought had died.”

“I know, baby,” Steve says, even though he doesn’t know, not completely. “I’m sorry. C’mere, Buck.” He gestures for _closer_ and Bucky acquiesces gladly, fitting himself against Steve’s chest, burying his face in his neck. “Sorry I’m gross,” Steve says, and smiles when Bucky laughs and shakes his head.

“I just. I know I didn’t—I didn’t deserve the stuff that happened to me.” Even as he says it, he lifts his eyes anxiously to Steve’s face, then shuts them when Stvee nods and kisses his forehead. “But, like, I think maybe I feel like I have to prove I don’t. And like, forgiving would be the purest way even though I don’t fucking forgive anyone and I don’t even want to, I just…” He trails off, then swallows hard. “He told me I’d killed him,” Bucky whispers. “And I told him he did it to himself and he called that victim blaming.” 

Disgust shudders through Steve. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. And, um. He said that, um, the most disgusting thing about me wasn’t that I’m, um, a slut, and stuff” —He flinches, and Steve cradles him closer— “It’s that I’d do that. Just hurt someone weak for no reason.”

Steve takes a breath to calm himself. “You realize—”

“I know.”

“—the irony—”

“I know.”

“Okay.” They are both quietly upset for a moment. Steve kisses Bucky again on the hair. “I’m sorry, baby. Fuck. I’m sorry you had to hear that and I’m sorry that there could be any part of you for a fraction of a second that thought there might be any bit of truth in it.”

“I might…” Bucky begins, his voice small. “Uh. Sorry this is so fucking needy, but, um. I think I might need you to remind me I did the right thing and I’m not, like, bad. If that’s okay. I just… I don’t believe him over you” —Steve winces, guilty— “But I… he’s like a parasite, the way he can get into my head. So I just, um. The reminder would help, I think.”

“Like it’s a problem for me to remind my fiancé that he’s the best and strongest and kindest person in the world,” Steve replies. He feels Bucky smile against his neck. “I will tell you how good you are as often as you want for as long as you want until you get sick of hearing it. But Buck, I’m sorry I said that about you believing him. I know it’s not—I know that’s a shitty thing to have said. And I don’t believe it.”

“I know,” says Bucky quietly. He laces their fingers together and sighs. “When we went to see your dad,” he says quietly, “did you have this weird, like, disbelief? I know—I know it’s not the same, but, um. This feeling that someone who had so much power for you and who scared you so much could be weak or sick or vulnerable feeling really wrong.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and though it was not quite the same extreme as it is now for Bucky, this source of unworldly terror reduced to something mortal and feeble, he knows the dissonance Bucky is describing, almost incredulity. “Yeah, I did.”

Bucky nods slowly. “It’s a little like that, I think. Except, um. It’s like, I never thought anything could hurt him ‘cause he’s such a monster, and the fact that I was able to makes me think I have to be even worse.”

“Oh, Buck,” Steve whispers. Bucky swallows hard. “You hold yourself to these unbelievable standards, you know that?” Bucky shrugs. “Babe, a year and a half ago you paid the bail on a GoFundMe for a woman’s bail after she killed her rapist. Like, literally shot him. And that’s because he deserved it. But you’re blaming yourself for Pierce when you had literally nothing to do with it, all you did was write a letter saying you wouldn’t feel safe if he was out, which is true, and neither would I or about a dozen other people, at least.” Bucky is quiet, but Steve knows he’s listening. “Sharon Carter,” Steve adds. He has not that about her in a long time. “She cut his fucking throat with a steak knife.”

“Self defense,” Bucky says quietly.

“You get what I’m saying.”

Bucky nods. “I know it’s stupid,” he says, his voice small.

“It’s not stupid,” Steve promises him. “Well, maybe a little. But you’re not stupid.” Bucky smiles and hugs him a little closer. “I just wish you’d be gentler with yourself, baby. That’s my point. You’re brave for what you’ve done, not bad. You’ve never been bad.” 

That night, Bucky sleeps on top of him, comfortable enough again to burrow as close as usual. Steve runs his hand up and down Bucky’s back and kisses him on the head when he twitches and sighs. Sometimes he is still learning that there is no statue of limitations for when recovery does, in fact, become linear. 

But he holds onto Bucky and considers the openness with which he’d spoken tonight, the willingness to explain that had come to him on his own, not coaxed out in therapy or whimpered in between sobs, and he is so proud and so lucky. He feels in awe of this home and this life they have created together, something so incandescent with love and trust, and he thinks of the angry, unhappy homes they grew up in and the callousness they were exposed to during their years alone and for Bucky, the unimaginable violence that might have, should have permeated him and turned him into something other than the extraordinary person Steve is holding, and he has to draw a breath.

“I love you,” he whispers, even though Bucky is asleep. “I love you so much. I’m so proud of you. You’re so good. You’re so brave. This is gonna pass and we’re gonna be so happy.” And even though Bucky doesn’t hear it, it settles in his head, the quiet, shimmery unconscious tenderness, and it keeps him lulled and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks claire as always love u
> 
> cafelesbian on tumblr
> 
> ok for real this is going to be done soon what can i say i love them but this is gonna wrap up and i will most likely write the wedding as a stand alone one shot but maybe not! no planning just vibes

**Author's Note:**

> cafelesbian on tumblr! i have absolutely no sense of who is still reading this but if you're here i love you very much


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